• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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INSIDE    OUR   GATE 


INSIDE   OUR  GATE 


BY 


CHRISTINE   CHAPLIN   BRUSH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  COLONEL'S  OPERA  CLOAK" 


BOSTON  '  < 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS 
1890 


Copyright,  1889 

BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS 


•nfbtrsitB 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE 


PS 


INSIDE  OUR  GATE. 


I. 

FOR  a  year  after  we  got  settled  in  our  own  house, 
we  were  ministered  to  by  what  Allan  called  a 
moving  procession  of  poor  cooks.  I  no  sooner  got 
used  to  a  cook's  name  than  she  went  away.  I  al 
ways  called  the  one  who  was  present  by  the  name 
of  her  predecessor,  and  had  just  decided  to  use  only 
the  generic  name  of  "Cook,"  when  our  affairs  took 
a  turn  for  the  better. 

It  makes  me  laugh  now  to  think  of  that  procession. 
At  first  untidiness  seemed  to  be  the  prevailing  fault, 
but  after  a  while  I  found  a  cook  who  was  neat.  She 
was  a  Norwegian  woman,  and  was  determined  to  do 
everything  after  the  fashion  of  Christiania,  or  not  at 
all.  She  positively  would  not  give  a  second  rising  to 
the  bread.  "  No,  no  ! "  she  would  say,  setting  her  lips 
firmly ;  "  good,  good  !  see,  good  !  "  and  then  would 
look  admiringly  at  the  low,  heavy  loaf.  Still,  I  surely 

1592788 


Inside  our  Gate. 


thought  I  should  be  able  to  teach  her.  Never  was 
there  such  a  spotless  cook;  and  she  would  wash  all 
day  in  a  fresh  print  dress,  with  white  frill  and  white 
apron,  and  never  look  even  ruffled  when  the  day's 
work  was  done. 

There  was  a  pot-closet  in  the  shed  kitchen,  which 
by  reason  of  old  age  and  low  company  was  hopelessly 
dingy.  Chloride  of  potash  was  kept  in  it,  and  that 
only.  A  broad  smile  played  over  Josephine's  face 
when  she  first  peered  into  it. 

"  I  make  it  good,"  she  said. 

I  never  went  into  the  kitchen  for  days  afterward 
to  give  an  order  that  I  was  not  greeted  by  a  sight 
of  the  soles  of  Josephine's  big  shoes ;  she  herself  was 
in  the  pot-closet,  scrubbing.  I  think  she  lived  in  it 
most  of  the  time.  She  was  an  exquisite  laundress  too. 
Allan's  shirts  were  a  joy  to  him.  If  I  got  discouraged, 
Allan  would  say,  — 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  let  her  go.  She  '11  learn  the  ways 
of  this  country  soon,  — and  those  shirts  !  " 

If  it  had  n't  been  for  those  shirts,  I  should  have  sent 
her  away  at  the  end  of  a  week.  Josephine  was  worth 
trying  to  teach,  however,  for  we  knew  that  she  was 
neat,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another,  she  was  glad  to 
live  in  the  country,  as  few  indeed  were. 

She  made  friends  with  an  old  brindled  cat  that  be- 


Inside  o^tr  Gate. 


longed  in  the  barn.  She  named  him  Jonas,  which  she 
pronounced  "  Yonas."  Josephine  and  Yonas  were  in 
separable.  He  was  a  fierce  fighter,  and  generally  had 
a  torn  ear,  or  a  piece  of  fur  hanging  loose,  or  limped. 
Before  Josephine  came,  we  had  called  him  "  the  burg 
lar,"  from  his  prowling  step  and  disreputable  air;  but 
now  we  called  him  Yonas  too.  He  made  the  nights 
hideous  with  his  awful  long-drawn  howls  and  heart 
rending  cries,  that  suggested  a  whole  orphan  asylum 
of  colicky  babies.  After  Josephine  adopted  him,  she 
used  to  entice  him  early  in  the  evening  into  the  shed 
and  shut  him  up.  One  evening  he  escaped  her  and 
spent  the  whole  night  abroad.  In  the  morning  he 
came  into  the  kitchen  with  a  cat's  claw  hanging  in 
his  ear;  and  another  day  Josephine  took  one  from 
his  eyelid.  He  idolized  Josephine.  He  sat  by  the 
pot-closet  with  her ;  he  followed  her  to  the  barn  and 
back.  But  he  looked  upon  the  rest  of  the  family  as 
his  natural  enemies,  and  would  flee  when  I  appeared 
in  the  kitchen,  or  stand  still  and  howl  with  terror  if  he 
saw  Allan  in  the  barn. 

Josephine  had  asked  me  at  the  intelligence  office 
if  there  were  any  Norwegians  in  town.  I  had  been 
obliged  to  say  no  ;  but  I  had  spoken  without  knowl 
edge,  for  Allan  told  me  afterward  that  there  was  a 
young  Norwegian  at  the  livery  stable.  I  could  not 


8  Inside  our  Gate. 

expect  the  little  pot-closet  to  continue  to  charm  her 
much  longer,  and  Yonas  might  prove  false.  So  having 
determined  to  teach  her,  —  she  was  so  neat !  —  I  sug 
gested  to  Allan  that  the  next  time  he  was  in  the  village 
he  should  learn  whether  the  Norwegian  man  was  re 
spectable,  and  if  so,  ask  him  to  come  to  see  Josephine. 
The  next  day  I  happened  to  see  Mr.  Frink,  the 
stable-man,  in  the  street,  and  asked  him  about  the 
young  man  (whose  name  was  Peter  Hummel),  and 
told  him  that  my  cook  would  be  glad  to  hear  her 
native  tongue,  and  that  I  wished  he  would  send 
Peter  to  see  her.  The  order  boy  from  the  grocery, 
hearing  Josephine's  labored  English,  told  her  that 
there  was  a  man  who  "  talked  her  kind "  in  town, 
and  Josephine  sent  him  an  invitation  on  her  own 
account 

The  very  next  afternoon  Peter  appeared,  rosy  and 
light-haired,  square  and  lumbering,  and  knocked  at 
the  kitchen  door.  He  was  a  young  fellow  of  per 
haps  twenty-four  or  twenty-five,  and  Josephine  was 
at  least  ten  years  older.  He  came  again  the  follow 
ing  afternoon  about  five  o'clock,  and  Josephine  took 
her  knitting  and  sat  on  the  kitchen  piazza  with  him. 
Before  her  sat  Yonas  peacefully  washing  his  face  and 
not  even  spitting  at  his  rival.  The  fourth  day  of  their 
acquaintance  was  Sunday.  Peter  came  in  the  afternoon 


Inside  our  Gate. 


and  escorted  Josephine  to  church,  and  later  we  saw 
them  come  walking  home,  hand  in  hand.  Monday 
night  he  came  again.  On  Tuesday  night  Josephine 
came  to  me  in  tears ;  Peter  had  not  come. 

"  Why,  probably  he  had  some  work  to  do,"  said  I. 
"  He  can't  come  every  night,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  no,  there  is  some  matter.  I  say  I  want  live 
in  city;  and  he  say,  'No,  here'  and  he  is  sad." 

After  all  my  efforts  to  teach  her,  she  was  going  back 
to  the  city  ! 

"  Why  does  he  care  where  you  live?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  ask  to  marry  me,  and  I  say,  '  yas.'  Then 
he  say  he  live  here.  An'  I  say  no,  in  city.  He  not 
like  that.  I  'fraid  he  come  no  more.  If  he  do  come, 
I  live  here  !  Oh,  yas,  I  live  here." 

"  Oh,  don't  worry  !  "  said  I ;  "if  he  does  n't  come 
to-night,  I'll  send  for  him.  But,"  I  added,  "before 
you  promise  to  marry  him  you  should  first  know  if 
he  is  a  good  man.  You  must  be  careful." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all,"  she  replied ;  "  I  haf  ask  him.  I 
say  to  him,  'You  good  man?'  And  he  say,  'Yas.' 
'You  love  God?'  'Yas.'  'You  yoin  the  church?' 
He  say,  '  No,  but  I  likes  to  yoin  it.'  " 

"  But,  Josephine,"  I  said,  "  is  n't  he  very  young?  " 

"Yas,"  answered  Josephine;  "but  I  don't  mind 
young." 


io  Inside  our  Gate. 

I  had  n't  thought  of  it  in  that  light. 

"  Yas,"  continued  Josephine,  "  he  young.  He  stay 
strong  long  time  and  save  money." 

The  next  night  Peter  came.  I  went  into  the  kitchen 
about  nine  o'clock,  and  there  he  and  Josephine  sat, 
their  chairs  side  by  side,  straight  against  the  wall,  each 
with  a  hymn-book,  singing  piously  —  and  out  of  tune. 
Yonas  sat  on  the  table  and  stared  solemnly  at  them 
with  glassy  eyes,  —  overawed,  I  suppose,  by  Peter's 
"  meowing." 

Not  long  after  that,  Josephine  caught  cold  and  had 
a  slight  cough.  Peter  was  generous,  but  he  wooed 
with  no  trifles;  he  was  no  silly  fellow  to  waste  his 
money  on  candies  and  flowers.  And  so  he  forthwith 
bought  and  presented  Josephine  with  two  flannel  un 
dershirts,  which  she  showed  me  with  pride. 

"He  make  good  man,"  she  said. 

This  present  certainly  was  evidence  that  he  was  a 
"good  pervider." 

One  day  Josephine  and  Peter  went  to  the  city  to 
have  their  photographs  taken.  Josephine  presented 
me  with  one.  There  she  and  Peter  stood,  facing  square 
to  the  front,  bolt  upright,  and  holding  hands.  Jose 
phine  said  they  looked  rather  "stoif;"  but  I  thought 
that  gave  the  picture  the  merit  of  being  lifelike.  I 
wish  I  had  a  picture  of  them  as  they  sat  that  night  in 


Inside  our  Gate.  1 1 

the  kitchen,  while  Yonas  stared  at  them  like  a  witch' 
godmother  ! 

Under  Josephine's  care  Yonas  had  become  a  plump, 
glossy,  prosperous-looking  cat.  One  night  we  heard 
Josephine's  voice  at  the  back  door,  calling  "  Yonas  ! 
Yonas  !  Yonas  ! "  But  no  Yonas  appeared.  The  next 
morning  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  the  portly  Yonas 
burst  into  the  dining-room,  rushed  across  the  floor, 
ran  straight  up  the  wall,  dashed  out  through  the  win 
dow,  and  rolled  over  in  a  fit.  The  next  morning  I 
saw  him  sitting  on  a  kitchen  chair,  thin,  bedraggled, 
and  with  his  eyes  crossed :  a  unique  possession  is  a 
cross-eyed  cat !  After  this  Yonas  looked  very  sick 
and  wretched.  I  said  he  must  be  drowned.  Jo 
sephine  remarked, — 

"  I  say  to  Peter  he  drown  Yonas  ;  but  he  said,  '  No, 
Yonas  always  been  good  to  him  ! '  " 

So  I  called  at  the  drug-store  a  mile  away,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  village,  and  asked  as  a  favor  to  have  a  man 
sent  to  chloroform  Yonas ;  but  no  man  appeared. 
Yonas  and  his  ills  passed  from  my  mind. 

At  dusk  one  evening  I  heard  the  door-bell  ring. 
Josephine  went  to  the  door,  and  a  long-continued 
conversation  followed.  Fearing  that  she  would  per 
haps  misunderstand  some  important  message,  I  went 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  listened. 


12  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  So  you  're  sure  he  won't  be  in  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  sure.     He  never  in  now  in  the  evening." 

"  Well,  what  time  do  you  think  he  will  be  in  ?  " 

"  I  think  breakfast-time  or  dinner-time." 

"  I  '11  call  to-morrow  then,  and  —  " 

"Josephine,"  I  called  down,  "he  will  be  in  in  a  few 
moments.  He  is  nearly  always  in  evenings." 

I  was  in  my  dressing-wrapper.  I  could  n't  go  down ; 
so  I  called  over  the  banisters,  "  Will  you  please  step 
into  the  hall,  sir,  and  take  a  seat.  Mr.  Burroughs  will 
be  in  in  a  few  moments."  I  always  say  "moments" 
when  I  am  vexed ;  I  generally  say  "  minutes." 

The  man  stepped  in. 

"  T  was  the  cat  I  called  for,  ma'am,"  he  said ;  "  the 
girl  said  he  was  out  and  would  n't  be  in  till  morning. 
I  'm  sent  by  the  drug-store  to  chloroform  him." 

"  Oh ! "  I  said.  There  was  n't  anything  else  to  say. 
I  am  very  glad  that  "  Oh  "  has  been  provided  for  such 
occasions. 

Shortly  after  this  Josephine  and  Peter  were  married, 
and  went  to  live  in  the  city,  after  all ! 

I  had  paid  Josephine  high  wages  all  the  time  she 
was  with  me,  but  she  had  never  learned  to  cook.  She 
was  paid  chiefly  not  for  cooking,  but  for  consenting  to 
live  in  the  country.  My  nurse  or  I  had  had  to  care 
fully  oversee  her  cooking.  She  was  not  amiable ;  she 


Inside  our  Gale.  13 

was  even  unamiable.  But  "she  was  so  neat,"  we 
always  said.  And  when  we  speak  of  her  now  we  still 
say,  "But  she  was  so  neat,"  as  if  it  were  neatness,  not 
charity,  that  covered  every  failing. 

She  came  back  the  next  year  to  show  me  her  baby. 
His  name  was  Oscar.  Little  Douglas  seriously  in 
sisted  afterward  that  she  had  said  it  was  "  Horse-car." 
He  was  a  big  unbleached  infant.  He  looked  a  good 
deal  like  the  bread  she  used  to  make.  He  wasn't 
like  my  babies.  I  suppose  he  was  a  Christiania  baby. 

The  faces  of  some  of  our  procession  of  cooks  I  can 
not  now  call  up  before  my  mind,  and  hardly  a  name 
remains  to  identify  certain  fading  visions. 

All  I  can  remember  of  one  is  a  tale  she  told  me  to 
prove  the  wickedness  and  worthlessness  of  physicians, 
—  indeed,  she  fairly  looked  upon  them  all  as  pick 
pockets  and  murderers  combined,  especially  the  "stu- 
dients  at  the  hospitals."  She  came  to  my  room,  one 
day,  for  orders,  when  I  lay  in  bed  with  a  sick  head 
ache  ;  and  standing  at  the  foot-board,  she  advised  me, 
no  matter  what  befell  me,  never  to  let  a  doctor  get 
inside  the  door. 

"  Why,  ma'am,"  said  she,  "  me  aunt  has  a  young 
son,  me  own  cousin,  and  he  got  tuck  in  the  leg  one 
day,  and  it  wint  on  gettin'  worse  and  far  worse,  till 


14  Inside  our  Gate. 

she  'd  spint  nigh  a  tay-pot  full  of  money,  the  doctors  a- 
comin'  and  a-comin'  as  if  there  was  n't  no  place  to  go 
to  but  me  aunt's.  And  at  last  says  one  of  thim, 
'  Take  him  to  the  hospital,'  says  he ;  '  his  leg  will  have 
to  be  tuck  off.'  Me  aunt  said  his  leg  should  niver  be 
tuck  off;  but  he  brought  another  doctor,  and  they 
gazed  on  the  leg,  and  at  last  says  they  to  me  aunt, 
'  Wud  ye  rather  have  a  dead  son  wid  two  legs,  or  a 
livin'  son  wid  one  leg?' 

"  Well,  the  day  come,  and  off  they  tuck  him  for 
the  studients  to  practize  their  devices  upon;  but  his 
mother,  says  she,  '  I  'm  a-goin'  too.'  So  whin  they  gets 
him  undone  and  laid  out  on  the  table,  and  me  aunt 
has  the  clo'es  he  had  tuck  off  under  her  arm,  and  the 
studients  tuck  out  their  long  knives  and  began  to 
sharp  them,  me  aunt  she  began  to  feel  stirred  up  to 
the  stomick,  and  the  room  began  to  swim  round,  so 
says  she,  startin'  up  quite  wild,  'Give  me  me  b'y,  ye 
bloody  butchers,  a-thirstin'  for  me  Timmy's  leg.'  And 
wid  that  she  caught  him  off  the  table  and  just  fled 
away  wid  him.  And  there  was  an  old  woman  livin' 
in  the  same  court,  and  says  she,  '  I  can  mind  Timmy's 
leg  till  he  can  lape  like  a  grasshopper.' 

"  So  she  poultiched  his  leg,  and  she  poultiched  his 
leg  for  a  month  continual,  and  wud  ye  belave  it, 
ma'am,  he  's  now  that  strong  and  lively  that  the  wake 


Inside  our  Gate.  15 

before  I  lift  me  aunt,  he  jist  lep  over  the  house, 
ma'am,  he  jist  lep  over  the  house?  Then  I  knew 
Nora  Twohig,"  continued  this  foe  of  the  doctors, 
"  and  she  had  a  thumb  that  left  her  no  pace  day  or 
night.  So  says  the  doctor,  '  Ye  must  go  to  the  hos 
pital,  and  have  the  studients  amputate  ye,'  says  he. 
So  her  thumb  hurt  her  so,  that  at  last  she  jist  wint  to 
the  hospital,  and  they  tuck  her  hi  a  room,  and  they 
began  to  sharp  up  their  knives,  looking  quite  cheerful 
betimes ;  and  whin  she  beheld  all  the  preparation,  she 
jist  put  on  a  most  doleful  look  on  her  face,  and 
gaspin'  as  if  she  were  a-dyin'.  She  sat  by  the  door, 
and  says  she,  '  Oh,  doctor  dear,  lit  me  jist  step  to  the 
door  for  a  brith  of  frish  air ;  I  'm  jist  stiflin'  ! '  And 
she  flid  away  and  niver  wint  back  again.  She  says 
they  quite  lost  track  o'  her,  for  though  she  looked 
back  at  iviry  corner,  they  were  not  a  chasin'  her.  She 
war  scared  to  go  out-doors  for  siveral  days  for  fear 
they  'd  ketch  her.  Thin  she  wint  to  a  drug-store, 
and  says  the  man  to  her,  '  Ye  must  poultiche  your 
self;  '  and  so  she  did,  and  whin  I  see  her  last  time 
she  could  hit  out  as  good  wid  one  hand  as  wid  the 
other." 

Once   I  had  spent  five  days   of  one  week  in  the 
intelligence  office.    Not  one  woman  there  of  the  sort 


1 6  Inside  our  Gate. 

I  wanted  would  go  out  of  town.  I  was  reckless  in 
the  way  of  wages,  but  that  made  no  difference.  The 
thrifty,  fresh-faced  _  Swedes  smiled  and  shook  their 
heads  and  bent  their  knee-joints  in  curtsies,  but  they 
"  did  n't  want  to  go  out  city."  I  expected  guests ;  I 
must  have  somebody ;  I  was  wearied  out.  At  last 
the  calm,  obliging  man  of  the  office  brought  me  the 
only  soul  who  would  go  out  of  town. 

She  was  an  oldish  woman,  in  a  print  gown,  with 
a  kind  voice  and  pleasant  face.  I  did  n't  want  her ; 
I  knew  I  did  n't  want  her,  but  I  engaged  her.  At  the 
appointed  hour  I  returned  to  the  office  to  meet  her, 
almost  hoping  that  she  had  broken  her  tryst.  Alas  ! 
she  was  there,  not  in  the  clean  print  she  had  worn, 
but  "  got  up  "  in  her  best  clothes,  —  a  draggled  bonnet, 
a  velvet  dolman,  consisting  of  practically  nothing  but 
its  name,  and  a  bundle  as  big  as  she  could  carry  in 
both  arms,  done  up  in  newspaper,  from  the  confines 
of  which  odd  bits  of  clothing  peered  out.  I  got  to 
the  curbstone  with  her.  I  paused.  I  thought  I  'd 
give  her  a  dollar  and  buy  her  off;  but  she  turned  to  me 
and  said  she  "  had  a  feelin'  that  she  was  goin'  home," 
with  such  a  pleasant  smile,  that  I  couldn't  do  it. 
Neither  could  I  indorse  her  as  mine.  As  the  horse- 
car  approached,  I  gave  her  change  and  a  ticket,  and 
told  her  to  get  out  at  the  end  of  the  route  and  await 


Inside  our  Gate.  17 

me  at  the  steam-car  station.  Then  Douglas  and  I 
took  the  next  horse-car  that  followed. 

I  did  not  look  at  my  lady  at  the  station,  except  for 
a  sly  glance  when  the  car  was  ready  to  indicate  to 
her  that  she  was  to  get  into  it.  I  sat  quite  at  the 
other  end  of  the  car,  knowing  that  she  would  keep 
her  eye  on  me.  I  talked  with  my  friends.  I  went 
out  of  the  car  without  a  glance  behind  me.  She  got 
out  too.  I  told  her  to  walk  on  till  she  reached  a  long 
light-brown  house  with  a  large  lawn  and  trees. 

Then  I  saw  Mrs.  Dillon,  a  lady  whom  I  knew  but 
slightly,  approaching.  She  smiled  as  she  met  me. 
"  I  've  just  been  to  call  on  you,"  she  said.  I  stopped 
to  express  my  regrets  for  my  absence.  Biddy  stopped 
too,  and  leaned  against  the  fence,  with  her  vast  bundle 
before  her.  I  motioned  to  Douglas  to  go  on  with 
her.  I  laughed ;  but  with  tears  in  my  heart  I  felt  as 
if  Biddy  were  an  awful  sign  to  the  public  of  me  and 
my  housekeeping.  "  Don't  think  my  housekeeping  is 
on  that  scale,"  said  I,  pointing  to  the  old  woman.  I 
told  Mrs.  Dillon  how  I  had  sat  five  days  in  the  office, 
and  that  this  was  the  only  creature  who  would  come 
out  of  town  in  the  Fall  to  my  kitchen.  I  said  I  did  n't 
want  her  now  I  had  her.  I  thought  Mrs.  Dillon 
seemed  more  amused  than  was  polite.  She  laughed 
until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 


1 8  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  brought  that  very  woman 
out  here  yesterday,  and  sent  her  back  this  morning. 
It  does  seem  sometimes  as  if  something  —  anything  — 
must  be  better  than  nothing,  doesn't  it?" 

I  gave  Bridget  a  receipt  that  night  for  my  breakfast 
rolls. 

"  But  I  can't  read,  mum,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  shall  I  have  to  stand  and  see  you  meas 
ure  and  weigh  everything  out?  "  said  I. 

"  I  'm  rale  sorry,"  she  replied.  "  All  me  sisters  and 
brothers  rade  well ;  I  was  a  giddy  thing.  Me  mother 
used  often  to  say,  '  Oh,  Biddy,  if  you  're  so  idle,  girrul, 
ye  '11  cry  two  tears  out  of  one  eye  sometime ; '  and  now 
the  time  's  come,  mum." 

She  wore  a  green  alpaca  dress,  faded,  of  course,  and 
rumpled,  and  with  great  black  slate-shaped  patches  on 
it,  one  of  them  right  in  the  middle  of  her  back.  I 
felt  impelled  to  do  sums  on  her  with  white  chalk.  I 
could  n't  "  stand  "  her.  Inefficiency  and  amiability 
make  a  most  aggravating  combination.  I  paid  her  a 
week's  wages ;  and  she  went  off  the  third  day. 

Once,  in  a  strait,  Debby,  my  nurse,  who  had  been 
with  me  for  years,  went  to  work  in  the  kitchen,  and  I 
tried  to  get  a  new  nurse.  Nurses  might  be  more 
easily  found  than  cooks,  we  thought.  I  had  once  read 


Inside  our  Gate.  19 

in  the  back  of  a  cook-book  that  it  was  utterly  wrong 
and  almost  wicked  to  tell  any  of  the  trials  or  details  of 
housekeeping  to  one's  husband,  and  that  never  under 
any  circumstances  should  one  allude  to  servants  in 
talking  to  one's  acquaintance,  or  speak  of  one  servant 
to  another.  When  I  was  married,  I  determined  to 
follow  this  good  advice  to  the  very  letter.  What  was 
my  horror  in  the  first  year  in  this  house  to  find  that  no 
subject  of  conversation  with  Allan  and  my  neighbors 
rose  so  frequently  to  my  lips  as  the  subject  of  servants, 
and  I  even  compared  notes  about  servants  on  the 
cars.  The  pattern  of  the  wall-paper  in  the  intelligence 
office,  and  the  faces  I  saw  there,  flitted  through  my 
dreams,  and  the  sound  of  my  foot-falls  upon  the  oil 
cloth  on  its  floor  echoed  in  my  ears  without  ceasing. 
I  began  to  feel  aggrieved  when  I  went  into  the  office 
if  my  usual  chair  by  the  iron  safe  was  occupied,  as 
if  a  stranger  had  taken  my  reserved  seat !  The  pleas 
ant  Swede  who  kept  the  office  greeted  me  always 
with  cordiality.  I  had  never  "  fighted  "  about  a  ser 
vant  with  him.  He  confided  to  me  the  characteristics 
of  different  ladies  as  they  went  out.  Pleased  would 
they  have  been  if  they  had  heard  him  ! 

He  looked  upon  me  as  a  friend.  Behind  the  parti 
tion  I  knew  what  went  on  and  who  were  there,  for  he 
told  me.  I  knew  that  the  old,  old  women,  who  came 


2O  Inside  our  Gate. 

and  went,  asked  to  have  places  found  for  them,  though 
they  did  n't  wish  places,  and  knew  no  one  would 
employ  them ;  but  they  came  there  day  after  day  to 
keep  warm  by  the  big  stove  and  to  hear  the  gossip 
of  the  place.  They  gave  free  advice  to  the  young 
girls  about  wages  and  hours  of  service,  and  "days 
out"  They  brought  their  knitting  and  a  bit  of  lunch 
in  a  newspaper;  it  was  a  woman's  club,  —  their 
Sorosis. 

Not  tell  Allan  about  my  adventures  at  "  the  office  ! " 
why,  he  could  hardly  wait  till  I  got  my  bonnet  off  to 
hear  about  them. 

But  not  only  at  the  office  did  I  hear  of  servants. 
People  who  heard  of  my  trials  began  to  write  to 
me  and  offer  their  protegees.  Once  a  lady  living  in 
the  city  wrote  asking  me  to  try  as  nursery-maid  an 
excellent  young  girl  who  was  unfortunately  slightly 
deaf  and  slightly  near-sighted.  Of  course  I  'd  try 
her;  I  wondered  that  the  lady  should  mention  such 
trifles. 

The  excellent  girl  came. 

I  sent  her  every  day  to  the  post-office  with  Douglas, 
who  was  then  five  years  old,  and  I  charged  her  not  to 
allow  Douglas  ever  to  step  on  the  track  that  ran  along 
the  middle  of  the  road.  After  they  had  been  taking 
these  trips  for  a  week,  I  happened  one  day  to  say 


Inside  our  Gate.  21 

to  Douglas,  "Of  course  you  never  step  on  the  car 
track." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  do,  mamma,"  he  answered ;  "  we  walk 
always  on  the  track,  —  on  those  wood-pieces  that  go 
across ;  but  she  is  very  careful.  She  says  she  can't  see 
or  hear  very  well,  and  that  as  sopn  as  I  see  the  cars 
coming  and  hear  them  'oot,  I  must  tell  her,  and  we  '11 
get  off." 

"  The  lady  "  had  n't  told  me  anything  about  a  near 
sighted  conscience. 

Another  correspondent  was  much  interested  in  a 
young  German  girl,  and  wished  me  to  try  her.  She 
had  lived,  so  the  girl  said,  among  "Christian  Ameri 
cans  "  in  the  city,  and  was  fond  of  children  and  the 
country;  and  she  was  very  amiable,  and  could  read 
English,  and  her  family  were  very  respectable.  So 
she  came. 

After  she  had  been  one  week  in  the  house,  she 
asked  to  go  home  for  a  certain  sack  she  had  for 
gotten.  She  did  not  return  that  night,  as  she  had 
promised.  The  next  day  she  appeared  with  a  rather 
flurried  manner,  and  said,  "Oh,  Mrs.  Burroughs,  I 
found  when  I  went  home  that  my  mother  was  getting 
so  old  and  feeble  that  she'll  have  to  have  me  at 
home." 


22  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  She  can't  be  but  a  week  older  than  she  was  last 
week,"  said  I.  "  How  aged  was  she  then? " 

"  Forty-seven.  But  oh,  she  looks  so  much  older  than 
she  did  last  week  that  I  think  I  '11  have  to  leave." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  home  last  night,  as  you 
promised  to  do,  Kate?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  had  to  wait  to  see  mother,  —  she  was 
out  cleaning  house ;  and  they  're  goin'  to  have  an  ex 
hibition  at  the  Sunday-school,  and  they  had  been  for 
me  to  speak  a  piece,  and  they  are  lonely  without  me 
at  home." 

Well,  I  appreciated  her  feelings,  —  the  "  me  and  my 
folks  "  feelings.  I  'd  rather  have  my  "  own  folks  " 
with  nothing,  than  all  the  joys  of  earth  without  them. 

I  had  by  this  time  tried  representatives  of  nearly 
every  nation,  and  nearly  every  religious  denomination. 
I  told  Allan  as  I  went  off  one  morning  that  I  should 
no  doubt  come'  back  with  a  little  yellow  Chinaman. 

At  last,  however,  instead  of  a  Chinaman  I  brought 
home  a  tall  colored  woman.  She  was  a  capital  cook, 
and  seemed  cheerful,  and  sang  hymns  at  her  work. 
One  night  I  went  early  to  bed  with  a  headache.  Late 
in  the  evening  I  was  awakened  suddenly  by  a  rustling 
at  my  bedside.  I  opened  my  eyes  in  a  fright,  and 
saw  Nancy  standing  beside  me.  , 


Inside  our  Gate.  23 

"Oh,  Mis'  Burroughs,"  said  she,  in  a  sepulchral 
tone,  "  I  'se  committed  an  awful  crime,  —  oh,  an 
awful  crime." 

"  What  is  it,  Nancy,"  I  cried,  starting  up  in  alarm. 
Had  she  poisoned  me? 

"  Oh,  I  'se  broke  one  of  you'  best  chiny  plates,  — 
oh,  do  forgive  me  !  " 

One  plate  !  That  was  a  mild  extent  of  breaking. 
Nancy  considered  breaking  china  as  the  worst  of 
sins,  —  stealing  made  no  noise  and  was  not  always 
discovered. 

One  day  Nancy  came  to  me  with  a  long  strip  of 
old  black  silk  in  her  hand. 

"Are  you  willin'  I  should  use  dis  silk?"  she  asked. 

"What  for,  —  a  duster?"  said  I.  "It  is  a  duster 
now." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  wants  ter  give  a  weddin'  present  to  a 
friend  o'  mine,  and  I  thought  when  I  see  that  in  the 
duster  closet  what  a  lovely  sash  it  would  make." 

I  presented  the  silk  at  once  and  some  blue  fringe 
for  the  ends ;  and  the  next  day  I  was  favored  with  a 
sight  of  the  completed  gift.  It  was  lined  with  black 
cambric,  and  made  up  in  a  great  bow.  Nancy  said 
afterward  that  her  friend  was  "  dreffle  "  pleased  with 
it,  and  wore  it  at  the  wedding. 

When  I  came  home  one  Sunday  from  church,  there 


24  Inside  our  Gate. 

had  been  no  preparation  for  dinner.  No  Nancy  was 
in  the  kitchen.  Debby  was  in  the  nursery  with  Elinor, 
and  thought  the  dinner  was  nearly  ready;  she  said 
she  had  heard  Nancy  upstairs  not  an  hour  before. 
But  Nancy  had  departed,  and  taken  ten  dollars  of 
Debby's  with  her !  Debby  said  she  had  told  her  the 
night  before  that  she  was  very  lonesome  away  from 
prayer  meetings,  and  did  n't  think  she  should  stay 
long. 

There  are  memories  of  a  black  boy,  Edward,  about 
seventeen  years  old,  who  spent  a  few  weeks  with  us ;  he 
arrived  on  the  same  train  with  an  uncle  of  ours  who 
was  coming  out  to  dine.  "  Oh,  there 's  Uncle  Henry 
and  Edward  coming  up  the  sidewalk,"  exclaimed 
Douglas,  who  was  looking  for  the  expected  darky; 
and  little  Elinor,  looking  out  of  the  window,  clapped 
her  hands  and  cried,  "  Oh,  Uncle  Henry  and  Uncle 
Edward  are  coming !  I  'm  glad  I  have  a  nice  black 
uncle  now ! "  We  often  spoke  of  him  as  "  Uncle 
Edward." 

He  had  come  from  a  family  of  numberless  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  from  a  tenement-house  in  a  city ;  and 
he  could  not  adjust  himself  to  the  country  and  to  lim 
ited  company.  The  cook  heard  him  crying  after  he 
had  gone  to  bed  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  and  came 


Inside  our  Gate.  25 

to  tell  me,  fearing  he  was  ill;  he  wouldn't  answer 
when  she  asked  him  at  his  door.  I  made  Allan  go 
to  his  room. 

"  What  made  you  stay  so  long,"  I  asked  when  he 
returned  to  the  study. 

"I  had  to  have  a  lantern  lighted  to  leave  in  his 
room ;  he  was  afraid  of  spooks,  he  said." 

"The  great  baby  !  "  said  I,  laughing. 

"  He  has  been  living  in  three  rooms,  with  a  dozen 
or  so  in  the  family,"  said  Allan  ;  "  and  he 's  lonely." 

The  next  day,  as  Allan  was  passing  the  garden, 
where  "Uncle  Edward  ".was  at  work,  he  said  cheer 
fully,  "Well,  Edward,  this  is  fine  air  to-day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  Edward,  sadly.  "  I  don'  fin' 
no  fault  wi'  de  air ;  if  dere  was  as  much  company  as 
dere  is  air,  it  would  be  a  very  fine  place,  sir." 

He  went  to  Sunday-school  the  few  weeks  he  was 
with  us.  "  Where  does  your  lesson  begin  next  week  ?  " 
Allan  asked  him,  as  he  met  him  at  the  gate  with  his 
book  in  his  hand,  one  Sunday. 

"  It  begins  at '  What  did  he  do  next,'  sir." 

And  Edward,  it  turned  out,  was  a  widower  !  Think 
of  a  widower  not  yet  seventeen  years  old. 

Debby  Johnson  was  so  good  and  commonplace  that 
there  was  never  anything  to  tell  about  her.  She  was 


26  Inside  our  Gate. 

like  one  of  those  bits  of  machinery,  well  oiled  but  un 
seen,  which  keep  the  great  flying  arms  and  spinning- 
wheels  in  order,  and  ready  to  do  the  work.  She  sang 
out  of  tune,  and  she  had  but  one  song  :  — 

"  The  night  was  dark  and  fearful ; 
The  blast  went  wailing  by ;  " 

but  she  sang  the  tune  in  quick-step  time,  which  par 
tially  robbed  it  of  its  terrors.  She  had  an  orange- 
colored  scarf  with  broch£  ends,  which  she  wore 
always  on  public  occasions,  spread  out  flat  over  her 
shoulders ;  and  she  carried  a  dark-blue  parasolette,  as 
she  called  it,  with  deep  fringe,  and  a  pagoda  top. 
When  the  cover  wore  out,  she  ripped  it  off,  and  using 
it  for  a  pattern,  she  re-covered  the  frame  with  silk  of 
the  same  shade. 

Her  brother  and  she  owned  a  farm  in  Vermont,  and 
thither  she  meant  to  repair  in  her  old  age  and  live  in 
"  her  side  of  the  house,"  when  she  had  amassed  suffi 
cient  fortune  to  live  in  idleness,  —  and  her  ideas  of  a 
fortune  were  limited,  —  for  the  farm  could  only  support 
her  brother's  family.  She  was  a  tall  brawny  Yankee 
woman,  very  sensible  and  very  capable.  No  poetry 
about  Deborah  Johnson,  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  the 
dew  had  left  the  grass  and  the  sunshine  left  the  day 
when  Debby  went  back  to  Vermont  to  take  care  of 


Inside  our  Gate.  27 

the  motherless  children  of  her  brother.  T  hoped  he 
would  marry  when  "  the  year  was  out,"  so  that  I  could 
have  her  back ;  but  instead  of  that  he  died,  and  then 
Debby's  lot  was  fixed  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

The  cook  I  had  just  then  wished  to  be  "  upstairs 
girl,"  so  a  cook  was  now  wanted.  Of  course  Debby's 
departure  made  it  necessary  to  begin  once  more  my 
pilgrimages  to  the  intelligence  office.  I  knew  that  the 
genial  Swede  would  welcome  me  warmly  as  I  entered, 
and  say  I  was  "  quite  a  stranger."  I  believe  he  had 
not  seen  me  for  nearly  three  weeks.  But  I  was  about 
to  secure  immunity  from  my  visits  to  his  office  for  a 
long  time.  Everything  comes  to  him  who  waits.  I 
had  spent  a  good  part  of  a  year  waiting  in  that  of 
fice,  and  at  last  — 


II. 


DOUGLAS  and  I  went  into  the  intelligence  office 
one  day.  He  and  the  Swede  were,  alas,  old 
friends.  He  gave  Douglas  a  picture  of  a  steamer,  on 
pink  paper  with  careful  directions  on  it  in  the  Scandi 
navian  language  for  getting  transatlantic  passage,  as 
if  we  wanted  to  sail  away  "  to  Norraway,  to  Norraway, 
to  Norraway  o'er  the  faem." 

A  few  spruce  young  Swedes  were  sitting  on  a  yellow 
settee  by  the  door,  and  in  a  corner  apart  sat  a  timid- 
looking  old  man.  He  appeared  so  utterly  forlorn  that 
I  asked  the  young  man  at  the  desk,  Mr.  Johanssen,  if 
it  were  possible  that  that  old  man  was  looking  for  a 
place.  He  told  me  that  the  old  man  had  left  Den 
mark  with  a  party  of  men  from  his  native  town,  to  go 
to  his  married  daughter  "  out  West."  He  was  so  old 
that  it  was  thought  best  to  intrust  one  of  the  men 
with  his  money,  his  tickets,  and  the  check  of  his  little 
blue  chest.  This  man  also  had  the  letter  in  his  keep 
ing,  with  the  directions  for  getting  him  to  his  daugh 
ter's  very  door.  But  one  night  in  changing  cars  at  a 
junction  somewhere,  he  missed  his  party  and  found 


Inside  our  Gate.  29 

himself  alone,  helpless,  without  money,  in  a  strange 
country.  "New  York  "  was  all  he  could  say  in  English, 
and  he  gave  that  confidently  in  reply  to  every  ques 
tion.  Poor  soul !  He  might  as  well  have  said  western 
hemisphere.  Some  one,  supposing  New  York  to  be 
his  home,  put  him  on  a  return  train,  and  he  arrived 
in  the  city,  where  he  was  soon  arrested  as  a  vagrant. 
He  was  found  sitting  on  a  curb-stone,  the  tears 
running  down  his  cheeks.  As  no  one  could  un 
derstand  him,  this  Swede,  the  keeper  of  the  office, 
who  was  somewhat  learned  in  Scandinavian  dialects, 
was  sent  for  to  interview  him.  Now  for  two  weeks  he 
had  cared  for  the  old  man,  paying  board  for  him  at  a 
decent  house  where  he  himself  lodged.  The  old  man 
was  so  grateful  that  he  could  n't  bear  to  have  his  one 
friend  out  of  his  sight,  and  sat  every  day  from  morn 
ing  till  night  in  sight  of  him  in  the  office.  Nothing 
had  been  heard  from  his  friends ;  and  as  he  did  n't 
know  the  name  of  the  place  where  his  daughter  lived, 
it  was  hopeless  to  attempt  to  find  her,  and  he  was 
to  be  sent  back  to  Denmark,  to  his  native  town,  at 
once. 

Douglas  listened  with  wide-open  eyes  to  the  tale. 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  said  I,  "  I  am  as  sorry  for  the  poor 
daughter  who  is  waiting  for  him  as  for  the  old  man 
himself.  It  is  terrible." 


30  Inside  our  Gate. 

Douglas  pulled  at  my  dress  and  showed  me  a  little 
pile  of  pennies  in  his  hand.  "  I  might  give  these  to 
him  and  just  smile  at  him,"  said  he. 

The  old  man  had  a  far-away  look  in  his  faded  eyes. 
Was  he  thinking  of  that  home  which  was  all  of  earth 
that  was  familiar  to  him,  far  across  the  seas,  or  of 
his  daughter,  as  remote,  as  utterly  lost  to  him  as  if  he 
had  gone  to  the  life  beyond?  We  went  up  to  him. 
Douglas  touched  him  and  held  out  the  money.  Then 
as  the  old  man  did  not  take  it,  the  little  fellow  opened 
the  closed  and  withered  hand  which  lay  upon  his 
knee,  put  the  pennies  in  it,  and  shut  the  fingers  over 
them.  Then  looking  into  the  old  man's  face,  he 
smiled  a  smile  so  full  of  good-will  that  the  weary  face 
lighted  up,  and  the  old  man  laid  his  other  hand  on 
my  little  boy's  head  and  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
sought  a  blessing  on  him.  The  tears  came  into  my 
eyes. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  fresh-looking 
young  woman  came  in,  with  a  child  in  her  arms  who 
was  dressed  more  for  health  than  for  style,  for  she 
had  red  flannel  pantalettes  coming  down  to  her  little 
ankles.  There  was  also  a  rosy-cheeked  boy  of  about 
ten  years,  wearing  a  Glengary  cap  and  a  gay  plaid 
neck-tie.  "  That 's  a  thrifty  mechanic's  wife,"  thought 
I,  "who  has  come  to  get  a  young  girl  to  help  her 


Inside  our  Gate.  31 

through  the  Winter."  After  a  minute's  talk  at  the 
desk,  Mr.  Johanssen  brought  the  thrifty-looking  little 
party  to  me,  and  seating  the  young  woman  before  me 
said,  "  I  think  she  will  suit  you." 

"  Are  these  your  children?  "  I  asked  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  said  the  pretty  Scotch  girl,  with 
a  bright  smile.  Then  in  her  pleasant  Glasgow  ac 
cent  she  told  me  that  these  were  her  cousin's  children, 
and  that  she  was  just  in  "  twa  weeks  frae  Canada,  and 
twa  years  come  Christmas  frae  Scotland."  Then  she 
opened  her  satchel  and  spread  before  my  admiring 
eyes  —  my  tired  eyes  used  to  looking  at  crumpled, 
dingy,  lying  references  —  sheets  of  fresh  note-paper, 
each  certifying  to  Catharine  Elizabeth  Drummond's 
good  character  and  capabilities.  These  papers  had 
started  from  Scotland,  and  had  been  certified  to  in 
Canada,  and  again  in  New  York,  by  some  one  con 
nected  with  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association. 

After  we  had  discussed  these  letters  for  some  time, 
for  "  Tibbie  "  was  loath  to  let  me  off  till  I  had  read 
every  line,  I  asked  her  what  wages  she  had  had. 

"  Perhaps  ye  had  best  try  me,"  said  Tibbie,  "  then 
ye  can  batter  mak'  up  your  mind  what  I  'm  worth 
to  ye." 

I  had  surely  found  a  "  new  kind  of  girl."  Douglas 
had  been  engaged  during  this  time  in  looking  the  boy 


32  Inside  our  Gate. 

carefully  over.  "  I  have  a  boy  in  a  picture,"  said  he, 
at  last,  "  with  a  cap  on  like  yours,  and  -it  says  under 
the  picture  — 

"  '  Here  is  Johnny  on  his  Shelty, 
Ridin',  racin',  helty-skelty.' " 

"  That 's  a  Scotch  cap,"  said  Tibbie,  "  and  that 's 
a  Scotch  laddie  beneath  it  Tak'  off  your  cap,  Rob, 
and  mak'  a  bow  !  " 

"  My  grandmother  was  Scotch,"  spoke  up  Douglas. 
"  I  like  the  Scotch,  they  are  such  good  fighters.  I 
bet  Bruce  or  Wallace  could  beat  all  the  English  there 
are  in  one  day." 

The  young  woman  laughed,  —  a  joyous  laugh.  "  Sae 
ye  'd  fight  for  Prince  Chairley,  wad  ye  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Douglas ;  "  I  'm  part  Scotch,  so  I  'd 
have  to." 

Then  the  Scotch  boy  broke  in,  and  demanded 
seriously  of  Douglas,  "Are  ye  an  Orangeman?" 

Now  Douglas  was  beyond  his  depths ;  but  he 
bravely  answered,  "  Yes,"  casting  an  eye  at  the  bag, 
with  a  lurking  hope  that  oranges  might  be  hidden 
away  under  the  "  credentials,"  as  Tibbie  called  them. 

At  last  it  was  arranged  that  Tibbie  should  meet  us 
at  three  o'clock  at  the  station.  I  wanted  to  begin  to 
own  her  as  soon  as  I  could.  Rob  and  Douglas  parted 
with  promises  of  meeting  again,  and  one  of  the  creden- 


Inside  our  Gate.  33 

tials  was  rescued  from  the  baby,  who  was  just  prepar 
ing  to  chew  it. 

"  I  might  as  well  write  me  name  and  character  upon 
the  shiftin'  sands  as  to  give  it  to  yer  keepin',"  said  Tib 
bie,  addressing  the  baby.  And  they  went  off  with  a 
farewell  wave  and  "  da,  da "  from  the  baby  to  the  in 
telligence  office  in  general. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  station,  we  found  Tibbie 
seated,  with  a  square  tin  box  on  one  side  and  a  round 
tin  box  on  the  other,  both  japanned  in  brown.  They 
at  once  suggested  crackers  and  cookies.  But  no,  one 
held  a  bonnet,  and  the  other  some  Scotch  gingham 
dresses  and  white  linen  aprons. 

With  Tibbie's  advent,  new  joy  came  into  the  house 
hold.  She  had  her  faults,  and  so  have  I  mine.  I 
knew  better  than  to  look  for  angels  at  Mr.  Johans- 
sen's  office.  For  one  thing,  she  seemed  to  possess 
a  changeable  day-calendar  of  her  own  arranging,  by 
which  her  sun  set,  rose,  and  set  again,  according  to 
her  suggestion.  Sometimes  breakfast  was  half  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  time,  sometimes  half  an  hour 
after ;  but  it  was  always  good  when  it  came.  If  the 
breakfast  was  late,  she  cheerfully  announced  that  she 
rose  early  that  morning  and  had  cleaned  all  the  silver 
before  breakfast.  If  we  were  called  to  the  table  when 
first  awakened,  she  would  announce  that  having  extra 
3 


34  Inside  our  Gate. 

work  to  do,  she  could  n't  be  hindered  by  sluggards  1 
As  Allan's  business  did  not  tie  him  to  early  trains,  Tib 
bie  soon  subjugated  the  family  to  her  will. 

One  morning,  when  we  had  been  waiting  for  half 
an  hour  to  be  called  to  the  table,  my  neat  and  smil 
ing  cook  invited  me  into  the  kitchen  to  show  me  a 
"snow-white  wall  and  sweet  closets,"  which  she  had 
whitewashed  while  all  the  family  were  asleep.  "  I 
got  through  in  the  closet  and  blacknit  me  stove  just 
as  the  clock  was  strikin'  twa.  Sae  I  a  bit  o'erslept 
mesel',"  she  said. 

A  neat  kitchen,  orderly  closets,  a  daintily  kept 
bread-box  !  Oh,  Tibbie,  a  good  day  greeted  my  eyes 
when  I  met  you  !  And  Tibbie  was  happy  too. 

"  It 's  a  blessed  thing,"  said  Tibbie  to  me  one  day, 
when  a  delightful  old  minister  had  been  dining  with 
us,  —  "  it 's  a  blessed  thing  to  dwell  where  the  fear  o' 
God  is  before  the  eyes  o'  folk,  instead  o'  the  fear  o' 
men.  Now  when  I  lived  just  oot  o'  Glasgow  at 
Colonel  Landly's,  and  see  their  reckless  way  o'  livin', 
—  the  colonel  a-pourin'  brandy  into  his  cheese,  and 
takin'  a  hot  toddy  before  ganging  to  his  bed,  —  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  abidin'  under  the  tower  o'  Siloam.  An' 
had  it  not  been  for  the  colonel's  leddy,  I  wad  nae  hae 
stayed  there  one  day.  She  an'  mesel'  were  the  only 
abstainers  in  the  hoose.  I  said  once  tae  her  when  the 


Inside  our  Gate.  35 

colonel  was  quite  silly  in  drink,  '  Dear  Mistress  Landly, 
how  can  ye  live  wi'  him ;  why  don't  ye  tak'  yer  own 
money  and  gang  awa'  by  yoursel'  ?  '  '  Tibbie,  Tibbie,' 
says  the  dear  leddy,  wi'  the  tears  in  her  een,  '  I  love 
him  for  what  he  was,  and  what  I  hope  he  will  be. 
The  varra  God,'  says  she,  '  that  made  us  has  to  look 
at  something  beside  oursels  in  order  to  love  us,  even 
the  best  o'  us.' 

"  Ah,"  added  Tibbie,  "  but  that  was  a  fine  castle  o'  a 
hoose  ;  and  the  clock  in  the  great  hall  had  a  long  line 
o'  soldiers  come  marchin'  pot  o'  it  at  the  callin'  o'  the 
hours.  An'  in  the  drawin'-room,  I  most  fell  faintin' 
when  I  first  gaed  in  an'  see  them  white  marble  folk 
standin'  here  an'  there  wi'out  a  scrap  o'  claes  to  their 
names.  I  asket  the  colonel's  leddy  aboot  het,  an'  if  she 
could  na'  wind  some  o'  those  soft  silks  aboot  them  she 
had  brought  from  India,  but  she  only  laughet ;  she  said 
that  they  was  made  from  images  found  in  Rome  ages 
ago.  She  was  a  holy  leddy,"  added  Tibbie,  thought 
fully,  "but  by  livin'  wi'  the  colonel  she  had  become 
contaminated  by  his  ideas." 

With  Tibbie's  advent  a  new  life  opened  to  Douglas. 
He  had  always  been  strictly  forbidden  to  go  into  the 
kitchen,  but  now  he  might  sit  if  he  chose  for  an  hour 
at  a  time  on  one  end  of  the  ironing- table,  lost  to  every 
thing  but  Tibbie's  wonderful  tales,  —  the  tales  of  the 


36  Inside  our  Gate. 

shepherd  cousins  who  "  cam  down  frae  the  Hielands  " 
to  sell  their  flocks  every  year,  and  who  after  the  sale 
always  called  on  Tibbie's  mother ;  "  five  big  Hieland 
men  i'  their  kilts  an'  their  bunnits  wi'  a  string  o' 
collie-dogs  behind  'em."  The  dogs  used  to  sit  sol 
emnly  round,  she  said,  with  their  best  manners,  as  if 
they  too  were  far-off  cousins.  She  told  how  she  would 
keep  watch  for  her  father's  boat  —  he  was  a  pilot — 
through  "  the  bit  winder  on  the  stair,"  and  how  she 
"  would  always  see  him  first  o'  ony  and  flee  down  tae 
the  wharf,  an'  gie  a  fly  in'  leap  intil  the  boat,  —  a  leap 
that  frighted  the  very  sailors." 

All  Tibbie's  friends  and  acquaintances  became 
familiar  to  the  entire  family.  She  quoted  Colonel 
Landly  on  all  points  of  table  dainties,  or  men's 
dress.  She  undertook  the  care  of  Allan's  boots 
after  a  fashion  learned  of  the  colonel's  page ;  and 
Allan  walked  in  boots  that  glittered  after  that.  To 
me,  "  Mrs.  Clark  "  and  "  Mrs.  Martin  "  and  "  Maggie 
Tullock"  and  "Elizabeth  Fountain"  were  soon  well 
known.  I  should,  I  am  sure,  have  known  any  one  of 
them  who  might  have  walked  in  unannounced. 

It  was  a  great  charm  to  Tibbie  to  live  in  the  house 
with  people  of  Scotch  blood  "only  one  generation 
back,"  where  she  might  use  her  Glasgow  accent  not 
only  without  rebuke,  but  to  the  pleasure  of  the  house- 


Inside  our  Gate.  37 

hold.  Ah,  "  Rabbie  Burns  "  was  not  left  to  charm  in 
Scotland  alone.  Scotch  songs  echoed  continually 
through  our  kitchen.  Elinor  picked  them  up  after 
a  fashion. 

"  Come,  fill  up  your  horses  ; 

Come,  fill  up  your  men, 

And  awa'  wi'  the  bunnits  o'  Bonnie  Dundee  ! " 

ran  one  of  her  versions,  sung  in  her  sweet  little  voice 
on  one  note,  sparrow-fashion. 

One  day  when  the  children  and  I  were  alone  at 
dinner,  Tibbie  came  in  with  a  plate  of  bread.  I  made 
some  remark  that  brought  out  a  quotation  from  Burns 
from  her,  and  when  once  Tibbie  uttered  that  name,  it 
became  a  text  on  which  she  could  open  an  endless 
discourse. 

She  set  the  plate  on  the  side-table,  and,  lost  to 
the  present,  she  began  to  recite  a  poem  composed  by 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Somebody  on  the  unveiling  of  the  Burns 
Monument  at  Glasgow. 

These  lines  have  stayed  with  me :  — 

"  He  asket  bread,  and  they  gied  him  nane ; 
But  when  he  was  dead  they  gied  him  a  stane." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Tibbie,  "what  a  concourse  there 
was  that  day,  all  flockin'  to  the  moniment !  and  when 
the  unveilin'  o'  't  took  place,  I  first  felt  the  cauld  shivers 
runnin'  down  me  spine,  and  the  blood  a-surgin'  to  me 


38  Inside  our  Gate. 

heid.  Ay,"  and  Tibbie  wiped  a  tear  from  her  eye, 
"an*  his  cauld  hand  o'  stane  hauldin'  a  daisy,  —  the 
crimson-tippit  daisy,  ye  ken. 

"  It  was  a  great  thing,"  continued  Tibbie,  "  for  one 
mon  to  speak  oot  a'  that  was  in  the  heart  o'  a  nation. 
That  was  a  true  word  the  auld  wives  said  at  the  birth 

o'  him, — 

"  '  We  '11  aye  be  proud  o'  Robin ! '  " 

She  sighed,  she  smiled ;  and  then  —  she  was  in  my 
dining-room  once  more.  And  taking  up  the  plate, 
she  passed  it  about  the  table  and  left  the  room  in 
silence. 

Little  Elinor  got  down  from  her  chair,  and  opened 
the  door  after  Tibbie. 

"  Never  mind,  Tibbie,"  she  said,  "  the  next  time  he 
comes  we  '11  let  him  take  tea  with  you  and  show  Scott 
to  him." 

The  one  thing  that  perfectly  cemented  the  friend 
ship  between  Tibbie  and  Douglas  was  a  present  he 
made  her  on  her  first  Christmas  with  us,  —  "The  Life 
and  Poems  of  Robert  Burns,"  illustrated,  and  bound 
in  a  bright  red  cover.  She  soon  had  bits  of  blue  yarn 
for  book-marks  between  the  leaves.  She  knew  the 
book  from  cover  to  cover  by  heart,  but  she  loved  to 
look  at  the  pictures,  and  now  and  then  to  refresh  her 
memory. 


Inside  our  Gate.  39 

Douglas  learned  to  dance  a  Highland  fling  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  while  Elinor  stood  first  on  one  leg  and 
then  on  the  other,  and  she  thumped  with  both  with  all 
her  might  when  Tibbie  "  came  in  "  on  the  chorus.  I 
heard  Tibbie  one  day  advising  Douglas  to  wash  his 
hands.  "  Come,"  said  she,  "  your  bans  wad  file  the 
Logan  water,  an'  yer  hair  needs  cutting,  too ;  ye  look 
like  a  Nazarite." 


III. 

TT  was  on  a  sweet  day  in  May  that  we  came  first  to 
look  at  this  house.  It  seemed  as  if  June  had 
stepped  into  May  to  see  that  all  was  going  well.  I 
always  feel  as  if  we  bought  that  day  with  the  house. 
When  one  buys  a  house  in  the  country,  what  wonder 
ful  things  are  thrown  in,  —  all  the  sky  for  one  thing. 
and  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  at  night,  and 
the  mist  on  the  morning  fields. 

We  really  bought  this  house  the  moment  we  came 
in  sight  of  it,  before  I  had  looked  through  the  kitchen, 
or  Allan  had  inquired  into  the  question  of  repairs.  It 
possessed  at  once  a  wonderful  charm  for  us  ;  it  was 
an  instance  of  love  at  first  sight. 

"  What  a  dear,  homelike  place  !'"  said  I. 

"  The  trees  are  there,  the  orchard  is  there,  the  house 
is  there,  and  a  barn  is  there  [we  had  not  expected  a 
barn]  ;  and  anything  that  is  n't  there  in  the  way  of 
modern  improvements,"  said  Allan,  cheerfully,  "we 
can  put  in  next  Spring." 

"  Bountiful  '  next  Spring  '  !  "  said  I. 


Inside  our  Gate.  41 

Then  we  laughed.  We  had  met  several  "next 
Springs  "  with  unfulfilled  promises,  which  nevertheless 
always  pointed  encouragingly,  as  they  vanished,  to 
their  fellows  on  the  way. 

Perhaps  if  we  had  looked  at  the  kitchen  first,  or  at 
the  cellar,  which  was  under  the  parlor  and  well-nigh 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  the  kitchen,  we  might  at  least 
have  paused  to  consider.  But  we  had  looked  at  the 
spacious  square  parlor  first,  with  its  six  windows,  and 
at  the  chambers  above,  where  the  old  cherry-trees 
fairly  thrust  their  budding  boughs  in  at  the  windows ; 
and  we  had  seen  the  cheerful  dining-room,  with  its 
open  fireplace  bordered  with  a  row  of  old  blue  tiles. 
There  were  six  different  scenes  on  the  tiles,  of  Dutch 
houses,  Dutch  windmills  with  careering  sails,  Dutch 
boats,  and  Dutch  people  skating  up  and  down  on 
Dutch  canals.  The  six  followed  one  another  in  order, 
and  then  began  over  again,  —  as  if  that  were  all  there 
was  of  Holland.  Windmills  and  boats  and  Dutch 
folk  skating,  —  was  n't  that  a  treasure  to  find  behind 
an  old  zinc  fireboard?  And  the  mantel  was  high 
and  carved  in  fans,  —  a  big  fan  in  the  middle,  a  small 
fan  on  each  side,  and  so  gradually  down  to  little 
"  hemi-demi-semi-quaver  "  fans  at  each  end. 

When  we  did  look  at  the  old  kitchen  "  devoid  "  of 
se-t  tubs  and  of  faucets,  and  with  two  small-paned 


42  Inside  our  Gate. 

windows,  my  heart  failed  me.  But  Allan  said  (he 
had  been  mightily  taken  with  the  last  room  we  had 
seen,  at  the  head  of  the  front  stairs,  —  an  L  room 
with  three  windows  and  a  fireplace),  —  Allan  said, 
"  As  there  's  no  such  thing  as  finding  absolute  per 
fection  in  this  world,  suppose  we  choose  a  house  for 
our  own  pleasure  instead  of  the  cook's  ? " 

We  looked  at  other  houses,  but  Allan  could  never 
get  away  from  the  pleasing  vision  of  his  study,  —  that 
little  room  set  apart  in  the  L,  up  three  steps,  with  a 
bolt  on  the  door  and  a  big  iron  key. 

If  one  wishes  to  buy  a  house,  it  should  be  looked 
at  every  month  for  a  year.  But  then,  I  dare  say,  it 
would  not  be  bought  at  all,  for  we  mortals  are  such 
poor,  unreasoning  creatures  that  one  little  inconven 
ience  outweighs  a  hundred  blessings.  Still,  to  actu 
ally  own  a  house  is  to  be  content  with  it,  as  content 
goes  in  this  world.  One  accepts  it  as  the  marriage 
contract  is  accepted,  —  for  better  or  for  worse.  It  is 
true  that  the  cherry-trees  did  bring  flies  by  the  thou 
sands,  but  I  reflected  that  there  were  people  who  had 
had  it  laid  upon  them  to  smell  ailanthus-trees  all  their 
lives,  and  saw  visions  of  travellers  in  the  desert  strain 
ing  their  eyes  in  vain  to  catch  sight  of  the  fronds  of 
even  one  distant  tree.  Thus  I  piously  encouraged  my 
soul  by  reflecting  on  the  greater  woes  of  my  fellows. 


Inside  our  Gate.  43 

The  lack  of  bells  was  distressing  in  this  straggling 
house,  where  instead  of  a  group,  we  owned  a  proces 
sion  of  rooms.  I  could  not  have  summoned  my  nurse 
from  the  far-away  kitchen  whither  she  had  been  sent 
for  a  glass  of  water,  even  if  she  had  chosen  —  as  I 
sometimes  thought  she  did  —  to  follow  the  example 
of  Father  Abraham,  who  seems  to  have  stopped  and 
dug  a  well  every  time  he  wanted  a  drink.  Yet  I 
would  not  have  exchanged  this  house,  warmed  and 
brooded  over  by  the  sun,  cooled  by  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  shaded  by  the  green  comfort  of  trees,  for  our 
late  handsome,  but  lofty  "flat." 

It  was  delightful  to  own  a  house.  We  had  owned 
a  home  for  years,  but  never  a  house  to  put  it  in  be 
fore  ;  and  how  wearisome  a  thing  it  is  to  live  in  hired 
houses,  only  tenants  know.  For  the  sake  of  getting 
a  settled  home  of  our  own,  it  was  even  well  worth 
while  to  go  through  the  exertions  of  "  moving  "  again. 

For  some  time  before  we  actually  got  settled  here, 
my  brain  refused  to  act  except  in  the  line  of  fitting 
square  carpets  to  long  rooms  or  wide  shades  to 
narrow  windows.  Allan  laughed  at  me  for  hum 
ming  continually :  "  When  shall  my  labors  have  an 
end?"  or  "Oh,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue!" 
My  sleep  was  uneasy.  I  would  start  up  in  the  night 
with  the  fear  that  the  casters  for  my  favorite  easy- 


44  Inside  our  Gate. 

chair  had  been  lost ;  and  in  church  it  would  suddenly 
occur  to  me  that  they  were  tied  inside  the  bagging 
cover  which  had  not  yet  been  removed.  The  abnor 
mal  condition  of  constantly  putting  our  Penates  into 
boxes  and  taking  them  out  again  seemed  to  be  our 
normal  condition. 

Allan  insisted  on  having  each  box  marked  with  a 
list  of  its  contents.  Allan  is  a  methodical  man,  —  one 
of  those  praiseworthy  persons  who  can  put  his  hand 
on  anything  in  the  dark,  —  but  packing  gets  the  upper 
hand  of  the  most  orderly  of  persons  sometimes.  In 
our  last  moving  I  saw  a  box  inscribed  "  white  vest, 
lamp-shade,  and  so  forth."  I  had  to  laugh,  but  I 
sympathized  with  Allan.  Just  think  of  all  the  odd 
things  there  were  to  pack !  That  big  white  piqu£ 
vest  that  Uncle  Joseph  wore  when  he  visited  us  once, 
and  left  behind  by  mistake  when  he  went  away. 
That  was  years  ago,  and  I  often  think  still,  after  I  Ve 
retired  for  the  night  and  can't  see  to  it  at  once,  that 
the  vest  ought  really  to  be  returned  to  Uncle  Joseph. 
I  dare  say  I  should  have  given  it  away  before  this 
if  I  had  known  whom  to  give  it  to.  If  you  had  ever 
seen  Uncle  Joseph  in  it,  you  could  n't  present  it  to 
a  tramp.  To  whom  could  I  give  a  large  white  piqu6 
vest?  Then  there  was  that  figured  globe  of  the  great 
astral  lamp,  with  the  dangling  glasses  that  had  been 


Inside  our  Gate.  45 

my  admiration  in  the  parlor  at  home  when  I  was 
little.  We  never  had  a  moss-covered  bucket  at  home, 
but  this  filled  its  place  in  my  imagination,  and  I 
would  n't  throw  that  away  if  it  did  n't  fit  anything. 

The  "  and  so  forths  "  in  Allan's  box  were  a  bundle 
of  old  photographs  and  some  daguerrotypes  of  rela 
tives  in  hoops  and  wearing  bonnets  with  posies  inside, 
and  ambrotypes,  which  at  the  last  moment  had  been 
found  in  a  little  table  drawer  without  a  key;  also  a 
small,  green,  mouldy-looking  idol  which  had  been 
presented  to  us  by  an  "  agent "  of  a  missionary  society, 
who  had  often  stopped  at  my  grandfather's  house,  and 
who  had  "  descended  "  to  my  father  and  so  on  to  me. 
We  always  took  the  idol  when  we  moved.  To  throw 
away  an  idol  would  have  seemed  a  mark  of  disrespect 
to  foreign  missions,  although  we  did  use  it  just  once, 
when  the  hammer  was  lost,  to  crack  nuts  on  a 
flatiron.  There  was  also  a  little  dollar  clock  that 
would  n't  go. 

If  King  Solomon  could  have  written  about  Allan's 
box,  he  would  no  doubt  have  said,  — 

There  be  four  things  which  be  "  and  so  forths,"  — 

An  idol  in  a  Christian  land  ; 

A  clock  that  will  not  tell  time  ; 

A  large  pique*  vest ; 

A  lamp-shade  that  will  not  fit. 


46  Inside  our  Gate. 

We  had  thought  a  little  of  building ;  but  I  am  glad 
we  bought  this  old  house  instead.  I  like  places  where 
people  have  lived  before  me.  A  new  house  has  only 
memories  of  painters  and  plasterers  about  it,  and  of 
visits  to  paper-stores,  and  of  the  weariness  of  selecting 
the  right  color  of  paint  for  the  outside,  which  is  the 
wrong  color  after  it  is  on.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  this  house  before  we  mingled  our  taste  with  that 
of  those  who  had  gone  before  us.  Years  ago  my 
house  was  the  parsonage  of  this  town,  before  the  new 
parsonage  was  built  next  to  the  church.  After  that  it 
was  occupied  by  an  old  minister  who  had  lived  in  an 
adjoining  parish,  and  who  after  his  parishioners  had 
brought  to  his  notice  the  fact  indisputable  that  he 
was  not  as  young  as  he  had  been  once,  bought  this 
house  and  took  boys  to  fit  for  college.  The  old  or 
chard  at  the  back  of  the  house  remains  as  it  was,  — 
a  veritable  apple-tree  orchard.  It  is  not  one  of  the 
new-fashioned  orchards  that  go  with  Queen  Anne 
houses,  where  little  dwarf  trees  are  placed,  a  few 
show  apples  growing  on  each,  in  neat  circles  of  earth, 
as  if  dropped,  stand  and  all,  from  a  toy  village.  This 
is  an  orchard  with  old  trees  that  lay  their  heads 
together,  —  old  trees  with  leaning  trunks  of  rough  bark, 
with  nests  and  chirps  and  trills  behind  the  blossoms, 
and  later  vyith  boughs  heavy  with  apples  and  bending 


Inside  our  Gate.  47 

low.  And  at  evening,  when  over  a  far  low  hill,  hazy 
and  blue,  the  sun  slips  away  in  golden  glory,  then 
the  trees  stand  rugged  and  dark,  massed  against  the 
yellow  stretch  of  sky.  This  coloring  reminds  me 
of  a  picture  I  've  not  seen  for  years,  painted  by 
Innis,  of  heavy  forest-trees,  dark  against  a  sunset  sky, 
and  along  the  woodpath  a  laborer  plodding  away 
toward  the  sunset  and  his  home.  There  was  a  poem 
in  that  picture. 

In  the  old  minister's  time,  our  side-yard  was  a  large 
old-fashioned  box-bordered  garden.  The  first  day  I 
came  here  I  found  a  lilac  crocus  in  blossom,  and  later 
one  scarlet  tulip.  There  were  straggling  rose-bushes 
everywhere,  and  a  strawberry  shrub  and  a  wegelia-bush 
and  a  great  tree  of  althea.  Between  this  garden  and 
the  orchard  was  a  berry-garden,  the  untrimmed  bushes 
hanging  over  their  fallen  supports.  In  the  middle 
of  the  garden  was  a  clump  of  lilac-bushes  which 
were  almost  large  enough  to  be  called  trees,  and  not 
far  away  a  laburnum-bush.  We  soon  pulled  up  the 
rows  of  old  box,  and  turned  the  garden  into  a  great 
green  lawn.  I  was  willing  the  half-dead  box  should 
go,  but  I  wished  its  pungent,  clean  smell  might  have 
remained  behind. 

Bordering  the  broad  path  from  the  front  gate,  — 
a  hospitable  gate  that  swings  inward,  not  a  gate  that 


48  Inside  our  Gate. 

pushes  you  back  upon  the  sidewalk,  —  on  one  side  is 
a  row  of  old  locust-trees,  with  rough  furrowed  bark, 
that  stretch  high  like  columns,  before  the  branches 
spread.  It  is  strange  that  so  rough  a  trunk  should 
be  crowned  with  leaves  so  dainty  and  fern-like,  and 
with  delicate  fragrant  blossoms.  Whether  these  trees 
are  so  old  that  their  sap  flows  sluggishly,  or  whether  it 
is  an  accepted  rule  of  etiquette  among  locust-trees  to 
come  late  and  go  early,  I  do  not  know.  But  I  see 
that  the  maples  along  the  sidewalk  long  precede  them 
in  their  leafing  in  the  Spring ;  and  in  the  Fall,  while 
all  the  other  trees  are  yet  fresh  and  green,  the  tiny 
locust-leaves  are  already  flying  through  the  air.  We 
shall  have  to  put  wire  netting  about  the  well  (I  've 
said  that  every  Summer),  the  locust-leaves  float  down 
in  such  numbers. 

The  delicious  water  of  that  well  has  always  been  a 
joy  to  me;  but  I  believe  Undine's  uncle  must  have 
got  into  it  lately.  Timothy  Farrel  "  previnted "  a 
kitten  from  falling  into  it  one  day.  Another  day  the 
nurse  dropped  her  spectacles  down  there;  but  when 
the  next  pail  of  water  was  drawn,  the  glasses  came 
riding  triumphantly  up  astride  the  bucket.  A  little 
girl  passing  from  Sunday-school  stopped  here  once 
to  get  a  drink,  and  lost  her  Bible  down  the  well  and 
a  good  supply  of  small  Scripture  cards.  A  boy  who 


Inside  our  Gate.  49 

was  weeding  the  garden  lost  his  hat  there,  and  he  and 
several  assistants  spent  an  hour  in  rescuing  it.  We 
lately  brought  up  an  infant  frog  in  the  bucket,  but 
we  sent  him  right  back  to  his  mamma.  Plumbers 
and  water-pipes  are  not  the  only  evils  connected 
with  water,  you  see. 

My  neighbors  have  told  me  something  of  the  people 
who  used  to  live  here.  The  old  minister,  they  said, 
had  a  sister,  —  Miss  Lois ;  a  gentle  little  maiden  lady 
with  white  hair  in  puffs,  a  tiny  lace  cap,  and  a  white 
lace  kerchief  round  her  neck.  Miss  Lois  was  an  ex 
cellent  nurse,  and  always  willing  to  sit  up  at  night  with 
sick  folk  in  town.  The  old  minister  and  she  were 
both  fond  of  flowers,  and  were  often  seen  working  to 
gether  in  the  garden.  One  of  my  neighbors  gave  me 
an  oleander-tree  in  a  square  green  box,  which  had 
belonged  to  Miss  Lois.  It  stands  in  a  sunny  corner 
of  the  dining-room,  just  where  it  stood  when  she 
was  here.  My  favorite  corner  was  her  corner  too,  it 
seems.  I  felt  quite  as  if  she  were  a  relative,  and 
as  if  I  ought  at  least  to  have  put  on  a  black  ribbon 
for  her.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  she  were  alive  and  here  this 
minute  !  How  easy  I  should  feel  about  the  children 
when  I  am  away  from  home,  if  she  were  only  about 
with  her  roll  of  linen  and  her  peppermint  bottle  !  I 
wish  I  could  meet  her  gentle  little  ghost  about  the 
4 


50  Inside  our  Gate. 

house  and  prevail  upon  her  to  haunt  us.  I  often 
think  of  the  old  minister  as  going  about  the  garden 
walks  with  his  hands  behind  him,  like  another  old  min 
ister  I  knew  when  I  was  little,  who  used  to  sing  as  he 
walked :  — 

"  The  Lord  into  his  garden  came  ; 
The  roses  yield  a  sweet  perfume, 
The  lilies  thrive  and  grow." 

I  wish  his  ghost  would  come  too. 

I  love  my  street  which  is  half  a  road,  —  for  not 
along  streets,  but  along  roads  are  daisies  and  wild 
roses  found,  and  golden-rod  and  asters.  My  road 
slopes  suddenly  at  its  foot  toward  "  the  Narrows," 
so  that  we  cannot  see  the  beach,  but  as  we  look 
down  we  see  sloops  glide  by,  and  flitting  sails.  I 
have  a  friend  whose  house  is  near  the  foot  of  the 
road,  and  on  the  shore  ot  the  Narrows.  It  is 
only  a  strip  of  sea  that  she  sees,  with  no  dim  hori 
zon,  no  phantom  ships.  But  still  she  looks  out 
upon  part  of  the  world's  highway  to  a  great  city, 
and  ships  go  by  from  far  countries,  heralded  some 
times  by  booming  cannon  from  the  fort.  So  well 
has  she  come  to  know  the  flags  of  other  nations, 
that  as  she  sits  in  the  deep  old  fashioned  window- 
seat,  or  rocks  her  baby  at  her  chamber  window,  she 
knows  when  ships  come  in  from  Spain  or  Germany, 


Inside  our  Gate.  51 

from  England  or  from  France,  all  brave  in  white  and 
red  and  blue. 

Upon  those  waters  there  is  constant  passing.  The 
little  tugs  go  steaming  up  and  down  as  pompously 
as  if  all  the  business  of  the  world  were  intrusted  to 
them.  The  prize  yachts  sail  there,  and  sloops  go  by, 
and  row-boats  from  quarantine.  At  twilight,  rafts  float 
past  with  crowds  of  Italian  workmen,  and  on  board 
bonfires  glow,  and  torches  flare,  as  on  they  float. 
And  when  the  land  grows  dim  across  the  Narrows 
and  is  almost  lost  in  night,  suddenly  a  thousand  lights 
peep  out  and  make  it  a  garden  of  stars. 

Between  our  house  and  our  next  neighbor's  lie  long 
fields.  I  never  knew  how  beautiful  the  soft  brown  of 
the  freshly-ploughed  earth  is  in  the  Springtime  until 
I  lived  here  and  owned  some  of  it ;  and  here  and 
there  the  fields  are  dotted  with  bobbing  figures,  — 
boys  and  German  women  planting  potatoes.  This 
year  one  woman  wears  a  gown  of  lilac  print,  and  on 
her  head  an  orange-colored  handkerchief.  I  thank 
the  old  woman  for  her  dress  ;  it  is  grateful  to  my 
eyes.  I  wonder  if  any  one  has  ever  raised  a  prayer 
of  thanks  for  bright  colors.  I  '11  do  it  now.  We  do 
not  own  these  Bouguereaus  or  Millets  or  Bonheurs 
of  ours  all  the  year,  but  we  always  own  them  in 
the  Springtime.  Sometimes  my  old  German  woman 


52  Inside  our  Gate. 

stands  ^  hoeing  near  my  fence.  Her  face  is  seamed 
with  years,  but  she  looks  content  and  cheerful ;  and 
when  she  raises  her  head  and  catches  my  eye,  as  I 
sit  at  the  window,  she  bows  and  smiles.  If  I  am  in 
the  garden  when  she  goes  home  at  night,  I  go  to  the 
gate  and  speak  to  her.  "  Old  Bertha  "  she  is  called, 
and  she  drops  a  little  curtsy  and  kisses  my  hand. 
She  sits  on  a  strip  of  grass  by  our  fence  to  eat  her 
dinner.  One  day  Douglas  was  her  guest.  It  was 
a  pretty  picture  to  see  them  sitting  side  by  side. 
Douglas  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude,  and  after 
that  he  often  saved  some  dainty  to  share  with  his 
friend.  He  wishes  I  could  have  tasted  her  good 
bread  !  One  day  I  saw  a  big  bundle  of  shawls  lying 
under  the  fence,  and  after  a  while  a  young  woman 
who  had  been  working  in  the  field  came  toward  it, 
unrolled  it,  and  settled  herself  to  nurse  a  baby.  I 
went  out  to  speak  with  her.  She  showed  me  her 
baby  with  pride,  and  told  me  that  it  was  nine  days 
old ;  and  both  of  them  lived  and  thrived. 

Across  the  street,  in  the  long  fields  which  lie  away 
to  the  east,  the  men  are  ploughing  up  the  hard  earth 
into  soft  loam  ;  a  white  horse  and  a  brown  horse,  a 
man  with  a  blue  shirt,  —  and  a  song  thrown  in.  A 
little  dog  goes  behind  the  man,  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  the  long  furrows.  Ploughing  is  weary  work,  the 


Inside  our  Gate.  53 

little  dog  thinks,  but  it  must  be  done.  And  he  looks 
forward  to  the  long  night  when  he  can  lay  his  weary 
little  head  upon  his  tail  and  rest. 

Outside  the  fence  on  pleasant  days  the  Italian 
women  are  gathering  the  leaves  and  roots  of  the  dan 
delions,  and  packing  them  in  great  bags  on  their 
backs.  They  come  back  every  year  with  the  dande 
lion.  The  women  look  just  as  they  should  look,  — 
only  they  have  the  wrong  background.  Their  color 
ing  is  rich,  their  gowns  are  bright,  their  showy  jewelry 
dangles  from  ear  and  neck.  At  dusk  you  think  they 
must  step  into  a  Florentine  gilt  frame  for  the  night ; 
they  must  surely  have  stepped  out  of  one  to  come 
here.  Alas,  what  dens  they  do  seek  for  the  night ! 
In  the  outskirts  of  the  city  one  day  I  saw  a  real 
Bouguereau  baby,  with  his  orange,  as  usual,  and  his 
handsome  mother;  and  he  was  scraping  contentedly 
on  an  ash-heap  with  a  stick. 

Every  night  at  dusk  an  old  darky  ambles  by  on  a 
mule,  —  a  bit  of  Georgia  or  Car'lina  passing  by.  The 
children  wave  their  hands  and  shout  good- night  fran 
tically  from  the  fence.  He  waves  his  hand  and  laughs 
his  chuckling  laugh.  Elinor  calls  him  "  Uncle  Ned  " 
and  loves  him.  Douglas  wishes  that  he  too  could 
ride  "a  nice  thin  ass  with  a  slender  tail." 

And  sometimes,  "  all  on  a  Monday  morning,"  like 


54  Inside  our  Gate. 

Prince  Charley,  the  soldiers  from  the  fort  dash 
by  on  horseback,  their  blue  capes  with  red  linings 
streaming  in  the  wind.  The  clatter  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  summons  the  children  to  the  garden  fence  in 
flying  haste.  The  sun  gleams  on  the  bugle.  Douglas 
waves  his  fi%g,  waves  it  wildly  "so  that  the  soldiers 
won't  notice  that  there  are  n't  enough  stars."  His  little 
patriotic  heart  swells.  He  knows  the  call  "  boots, 
saddles,  and  away  !  "  The  soldiers  smile  at  the  little 
folk,  as  they  dash  by  in  a  cloud  of  dusty  glory.  The 
children's  eyes  gleam  with  excitement.  "  Oh,"  cries 
Douglas,  "  I  feel  as  if  I  could  hug  my  country  !  "  But 
on  the  days  when  the  artillery-men  ride  slowly  by, 
with  the  mounted  cannon  lumbering  along,  the  chil 
dren  look  grave.  There  is  a  hint  here  of  something 
more  than  is  suggested  by  the  gleaming  bugle  and  the 
dashing  horsemen  in  blue  and  red. 

Our  town  is  a  delightful  out-of-door  town.  I  never 
cared  for  a  village  with  streets  and  yards,  gloomy  and 
damp  with  dense  shade-trees.  We  have  all  the  air 
and  sea-winds  too,  and  all  the  light  in  the  world,  for 
we  own  the  whole  of  the  sky.  From  the  nursery 
windows  can  be  seen  the  sweet  light  of  morning  shin 
ing  over  three  miles  of  level  fields  that  stretch  away 
to  the  sea,  and  to  the  glittering  towers  of  the  hotels 
on  the  far  beach,  which  shine  snowy  white.  I  cannot 


Inside  our  Gate.  55 

see  the  distant  marsh  meadows,  in  golden  greens  and 
browns,  with  rank  rows  of  flag-lilies,  and  great  stalks 
of  marshmallows,  whose  pink  trumpets  glow  and  put 
to  shame  all  the  garden  hollyhocks ;  but  I  know  that 
they  are  there,  and  that  some  of  the  sabbatias  linger 
yet.  Around  the  far  horizon  is  a  soft  haze  of  foliage, 
from  which  the  spire  of  a  distant  church  peeps  out ; 
and  at  dusk  houses  appear  here  and  there  that  were 
invisible  all  day,  their  windows  ablaze  with  the  rays 
of  the  departing  sun.  Those  little  houses  seem  only 
to  spring  into  existence  when  the  day  dies  and 
weary  folk  need  rest. 

My  town  brought  its  name  from  beyond  the  sea. 
It  has  a  name  that  conjures  up  a  picture  of  dikes 
and  windmills  and  canals  and  memories  of  stanch, 
brave  souls.  I  live  on  Church  Lane.  Do  you  not 
like  an  old  stone  church,  lichen-tinted,  with  a  square 
tower  all  vine-clad?  Such  a  church  we  have.  In 
Summer  we  catch  only  peeps  of  it  through  the  maple- 
boughs  from  our  south  windows  ;  but  in  Winter  it  is 
clearly  seen  through  a  delicate  tracery  of  leafless 
branches. 

Years  and  years  ago  the  very  stones  of  our  old 
church  formed  another  building,  one  fashioned  by  the 
settlers  from  beyond  the  sea.  That  church  was  oc 
tagonal  ;  and  the  tiled  roof  rose  in  a  sharp  slant  to  the 


56  Inside  our  Gate. 

little  bell  tower  in  the  middle,  where  a  brass  weather 
cock  veered  in  the  wind.  The  Bible  on  the  pulpit- 
cushion  was  printed  in  Holland,  in  the  Dutch  tongue, 
and  an  hour-glass  stood  beside  it.  From  the  sound 
ing-board  above  the  high  pulpit  hung  a  golden  dove. 

The  graveyard  is  still  as  quaint  a  place  as  could 
well  be  found.  There  are  no  walks  laid  out,  save 
along  the  fence,  where  a  wide  path,  grass-grown,  is 
left  unused.  To  go  about  the  yard  you  must  step  on 
the  green  sod  between  the  graves. 

The  land  belongs  to  the  church,  not  to  the  town, 
although  it  was  quite  the  same  thing,  I  imagine,  in 
the  old  days.  There  are  no  family  plots  set  apart  by 
stone  curbings  or  by  fences,  for  it  is  a  gathering  of 
kindred  and  of  neighbors.  There  are  a  few  great 
weeping-willows,  and  a  white  poplar  with  green  and 
silver  leaves  which  seem  to  twinkle  out  the  flying 
minutes  to  the  eye  as  they  quiver  in  the  lightest 
breeze. 

The  wild  flowers  grow  luxuriantly  along  the  line  of 
the  fence,  and  the  myrtle  which  loving  hands  planted 
long  ago  runs  far  and  wide  through  the  grass,  bloom 
ing  on  graves  which  were  not  there  when  it  was 
planted.  In  one  corner  are  the  graves  of  the  colored 
people,  who  were  slaves  here  in  generations  gone  by ; 
and  far  back  from  the  road  there  is  a  low  granite 


Inside  our  Gate.  57 

table,  moss-grown  and  crumbling,  which  looks  like  an 
altar,  and  as  if  the  sweet  smoke  of  incense  should  rise 
from  it  morn  and  night.  Now,  when  the  friends  stand 
sorrowing  by  a  new  grave,  and  wait  in  silence  for 
the  words  from  the  minister,  "  Dust  to  dust,  and  the 
spirit  to  God  who  gave  it,"  then  the  church-bell  tolls 
from  the  stone  tower,  as  if  to  include  all  the  dwellers 
in  town  in  the  sorrow,  and  to  repeat  to  them,  "  Dust 
to  dust,  and  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave  it." 

A  kindly  old  fashion  prevailed  in  town  till  within 
a  year  or  two.  The  sexton  of  the  church,  at  the 
request  of  the  family  into  which  death  had  come, 
went  through  the  town  inviting  each  family  to  attend 
the  funeral,  as  if  to  say,  "  Come,  weep  with  them 
that  weep,  as  one  that  comforteth  the  mourners." 

At  right  angles  with  our  street  lies  the  King's  High 
way.  O  visions  of  royal  pageants  !  Up  that  road, 
in  days  gone  by,  troops  of  red-coats  marched,  by 
order  of  a  king ;  and  later,  by  order  of  the  people, 
from  a  near  port  the  red-coats  sailed  away.  Up  this 
same  road  the  splendid  mail-coach,  with  its  six  horses, 
came  swinging  into  town  every  day  to  the  clear  sound 
of  a  horn,  and  pulled  up  at  the  tavern  door,  on  the 
corner  of  Church  Lane  and  the  King's  Highway. 
We  stand  in  one  room  of  that  old  tavern  now  when 
we  are  waiting  for  the  steam -cars.  Across  the  wide 


58  Inside  our  Gate. 

arched  hall  can  be  seen  the  carved  doorways  of  the 
parlors,  and  a  peep  of  the  mantel  with  a  spread  eagle 
carved  across  its  whole  length. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  stands  a  long  low 
house,  half  stone,  half  wood,  with  overhanging  eaves 
and  windows  of  many  panes,  one  of  which  bears  the 
name  of  the  British  officer  with  whom  eloped  the 
pretty  girl  that  lived  there  —  how  many  years  ago  ! 

As  I  have  said,  my  road  at  one  end  runs  into  the 
Narrows.  The  other  end  vanishes  in  a  paved  and 
cobbled  city  street  four  miles  away.  All  night  long 
the  western  horizon  reflects  in  a  dull  gleam  the  un- 
quenched  city  lights.  There  is  a  strange  unrest  about 
it ;  but  in  the  east  the  soft  darkness  comforts  wakeful 
eyes  like  sleep. 


IV. 


PERHAPS  you  have  heard  of  the  pleasure  of  see 
ing  a  picture  grow.  I  will  tell  you  my  experience. 
One  day  I  received  a  note  from  Pauline.  My  cousin 
Pauline  is  an  artist ;  and  she  is  young  and  pretty,  for 
which  I  am  grateful,  for  I  always  feel  under  a  personal 
obligation  to  youth  and  beauty.  Her  hair  grows 
prettily  about  her  brow  in  waves  and  rings ;  her  little 
nose  tilts  up ;  her  teeth  are  white  and  small.  I  don't 
know  what  charm  lies  in  her  eyes.  I  think  it  is  the 
charming  way  she  looks  out  of  them.  But  about  her 
mouth  and  chin  there  is  a  little  resolute  air  which 
makes  one  feel  easy  about  her  future.  She  is  a  merry 
little  body,  and  her  laugh  is  very  pleasant ;  as  Sarah 
"  Jinkins  "  says,  "  She  's  good  to  hev." 

She  works  with  all  her  might  and  loves  her  work. 
She  used  to  tell  me  every  time  she  came  to  see  me 
how  much  money  the  long  gray  stocking  under  the 
eaves  had  in  it.  She  'd  come  oftener  to  see  us,  she 
said,  if  it  was  n't  for  the  car-fare  (it 's  fifty-five  cents 
from  the  city  and  back).  She  used  to  tell  me  that  she 


60  Inside  our  Gate. 

longed  for  us,  then  plunged  her  hand,  alas,  far  down 
into  the  stocking  leg,  weighed  us  and  weighed  Europe 
and  couldn't  decide,  and  then  tossed  up  a  penny, 
—  heads,  Cousin  Molly ;  tails,  Europe. 

After  her  old  grandmother  died,  with  whom  she 
lived  in  western  Massachusetts,  she  set  out  bravely  to 
be  an  artist. 

This  was  the  young  lady  who  wrote  in  rather  a 
melancholy  strain  to  tell  me  that  she  was  having  a 
very  hard  time  with  her  models.  A  little  French 
girl  whom  she  had  discovered  after  a  long  search 
and  engaged  to  pose  as  a  little  girl  sewing,  had 
proved  good  for  nothing ;  she  insisted  on  wiping 
her  little  nose  constantly  on  a  large  red  cotton  hand 
kerchief,  and  getting  out  of  position.  Now  Pauline 
wished  to  come  to  our  house  to  begin  another  pic 
ture  ;  and  she  concluded  her  note  by  asking  if  there 
were  any  geese  in  our  town.  Judging  that  there  was 
no  covert  insult  in  the  question,  I  replied  that  I  knew 
of  three  geese,  —  their  name  was  Jones ;  and  those 
three,  two  white  and  one  gray,  were  owned  by  a 
woman  who  sold  me  milk,  and  I  doubted  not  they 
could  be  hired  by  the  day  as  models.  In  answer 
came  another  note  from  Pauline,  naming  a  day  when 
she  would  arrive,  and  asking  that  the  geese  might  be 
ready  for  her. 


Inside  our  Gate.  61 

A  few  days  afterward  a  strange  procession  filed 
through  our  house  to  an  unused  bedroom,  which 
sudden  rain  had  forced  us  to  substitute  for  the  barn 
as  a  studio  for  the  painting  of  animal  life.  Pauline 
led  the  way,  carrying  an  easel ;  Douglas  followed 
with  the  paints;  after  him,  Elinor,  who  had  been  in 
trusted  with  a  glass  of  water,  for  the  geese,  appropri 
ately,  were  to  be  painted  in  water-colors  ;  then  Tibbie, 
struggling  with  three  frantic,  "  squawking  "  geese.  I 
brought  up  the  rear  with  three  flatirons,  to  which  the 
geese  were  to  be  anchored  with  soft  wide  strips  of 
cloth,  —  a  sort  of  improvised  ball  and  chain.  Mary 
Shannon  laid  an  old  sweeping-sheet  upon  the  carpet, 
and  we  proceeded  to  arrange  the  models,  scattering 
some  crumbs  before  them  to  occupy  their  minds  and 
fill  their  time  pleasantly. 

But  as  soon  as  the  great  geese  were  settled  to  our 
minds,  they  at  once  began  to  get  unsettled ;  the  little 
French  model  was  a  wooden  image  compared  with 
them.  If  Pauline  began  to  sketch  them  in  while  they 
were  hissing  toward  the  right,  they  at  once  hissed 
toward  the  left,  stretching  out  and  drawing  in  their  long 
necks,  as  if  they  were  leagued  together  to  defeat  some 
sinister  design  which  they  suspected  on  our  part. 

"  They  are  thirsty,"  I  exclaimed ;  "  why  did  n't  I 
think  of  that?  Mary,  get  a  basin  of  water." 


62  Inside  our  Gate. 

We  placed  the  tin  basin  which  she  brought  on  the 
middle  of  the  sheet.  The  old  gray  gander  at  once  set 
his  skinny  claw  on  it  and  tipped  it  over.  There  was  a 
rush  for  cloths  to  sop  up  the  water. 

"  Mary,"  said  I,  reprovingly,  "  you  should  have 
brought  a  heavy  china  basin  that  they  could  n't 
upset." 

When  Mary  returned  with  a  large  china  basin, 
Pauline  was  sketching  the  biggest  white  goose  as  she 
stood  motionless,  her  long  neck  outstretched  and  her 
yellow  bill  raised  in  an  insulting  manner,  as  if  she  said, 
"I'm  Mrs.  Jones's  goose;  whose  goose  are  you?" 
The  instant  the  basin  was  set  on  the  floor,  this  goose 
just  flapped  her  wings  and  squatted  down  in  it,  sending 
out  such  a  shower  as  caused  us  all  to  retreat. 

"  Oh,  Mary,"  I  cried,  "  bring  that  piece  of  old  in 
grain  carpet,  and  take  this  wet  sheet  away." 

As  soon  as  the  gray  gander  and  the  other  white 
goose  saw  their  companion's  comfortable  seat  in  the 
basin,  they  both  wanted  to  sit  in  the  basin  too  ;  but 
the  attempt  only  produced  a  wild  fluttering  of  wings 
that  did  not  at  all  disturb  the  soaking  goose,  which 
sat  there  so  calm  and  collected  that  I  am  sure  if 
Pauline  had  wished  to  paint  three  geese  squatting  in 
basins  she  could  have  depended  on  her  models  ;  but 
her  idea  was  to  paint  them  waddling  up  a  path  and 


Inside  our  Gate.  63 

demanding  entrance  through  a  gate  which  was  to  be 
guarded  by  a  small  boy,  barring  their  way  to  an  en 
ticing  puddle.  And  she  liked  her  subject  better  than 
that  selected  by  the  geese. 

Suddenly  the  goose  in  the  basin  hopped  to  the 
floor,  tipping  the  basin  over  as  she  hopped.  "  Mary  ! 
Quick,  bring  the  rubber  sheet ! " 

Mary  flew  to  the  hall  closet  and  brought  it.  Then 
she,  with  Tibbie's  help,  bore  out  the  ingrain  carpet, 
as  they  before  bore  out  the  sheet,  laid  down  the  rub 
ber  sheet,  and  sopped  up  the  carpet  for  the  second 
time.  The  geese  seemed  rather  weary  by  this  time, 
and  so  they  stood  still ;  and  Pauline  painted  away  with 
great  zeal  till  lunch-time. 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  a  gate,"  called  Pauline  to 
me.  She  was  again  settled  at  her  work. 

I  had  already  provided  the  trees  and  the  sky  for  that 
picture,  besides  the  small  boy  and  three  geese,  —  and 
a  real  puddle,  too.  She  wanted  a  gate  now ;  and  she 
asked  for  it  in  a  jaunty  way,  as  if  I  kept  loose  gates 
lying  about  my  house,  like  spools  or  pins.  She  said 
little  Douglas  must  lean  over  a  gate  to  get  just  the 
pose  she  wished.  She  had  tried  him  over  a  towel-rack, 
and  it  would  n't  work. 

"  Do  you  insist  on  a  green  gate  ?  "  I  asked ;  "  be 
cause  I  have  none." 


64  Inside  our  Gate. 

She  did  not 

"  I  have  a  white  gate,"  said  I,  "  that  used  to  bar 
the  stairs  when  the  children  were  little;  it  is  in  the 
garret." 

I  sat  at  this  moment  in  my  own  room.  Across  the 
hall  was  my  best  guest-chamber.  I  had  just  put  up 
new  curtains  in  the  windows,  and  I  had  left  the  door 
open  to  get  the  effect  from  my  room.  I  had  never 
really  finished  that  room  to  my  liking  till  that  day; 
it  was  a  pretty  room. 

Oh,  that  gate  !  "  Mary  ! "  I  called.  She  came, 
expecting  to  be  sent  after  a  tin  sheet  for  the  geese, 
or  to  take  up  the  carpet,  or  the  floor.  "Mary,  in 
the  front  of  the  garret  you  will  find  a  white  gate, 
and  —  " 

"A  gate,  ma'am?" 

"  Yes,  a  gate  painted  white.  Bring  it  down  to  Miss 
Pauline." 

She  went  up  the  garret  stairs. 

I  sat  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  still  gazing  into  my 
pretty  guest-chamber.  It  was  in  cream  and  pink. 
The  paper  I  had  found  on  the  wall,  a  cream  ground 
with  pink  prince's  feathers  set  here  and  there  upon 
it,  —  oh,  so  pretty  and  old-fashioned !  The  wood 
work  had  been  of  a  light  pea-green  ;  but  that  was  now 
changed  to  a  soft  cream-color,  and  I  had  cream- 


Inside  our  Gate.  65 

colored  cretonne  with  pink  roses  at  the  windows,  and 
—  a  crash  ! 

I  looked  up.  There  was  a  stout  leg  thrust  through 
the  ceiling  of  my  finished,  my  beloved  room  !  — -  a 
stout  leg,  with  a  black  boot  and  unbleached  stocking ; 
Mary's  leg  ! 

"  Woe  betide  me  !  "  I  cried ;  "  she  has  gone  through 
the  unfloored  part  of  the  garret." 

I  sat  motionless.  Pauline  and  the  children  rushed 
into  my  room  under  the  impression  that  there  were 
extra  geese  and  extra  basins  in  my  part  of  the 
house.  My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  opposite  room. 
Pauline,  horrified,  saw  the  leg  drawn  up  into  the 
ceiling;  then  she  looked  at  the  heap  of  plaster  on 
the  floor. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"  It  is  Mary,  getting  your  gate,"  said  I.  "  What 
will  you  have  next,  —  one  of  the  chimneys,  or  a  bottle 
of  water  from  the  River  Jordan,  or  the  hanging  garden 
of  Babylon?  just  ask  for  one  or  all  !  " 

Pauline,  in  a  big  linen  apron,  with  a  maul-stick  in 
her  hand,  stood  perfectly  still ;  then  with  a  burst  of 
ill- timed  laughter  she  ran  to  the  garret  door. 

"  Are  you  hurt,  Mary?  "  she  cried. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Mary ;   "  I  found  the  gate ;  " 
and  she  appeared,  lugging  it  down  the  stairs. 
5 


66  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  Of  course  you  are  dead,  Mary,"  said  I.  "  Is 
your  leg  broken?  Weren't  you  frightened  out  of 
your  wits?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  a  bit  took  off  me  guard,"  said  Mary, 
in  her  quiet  way ;  but  she  looked  aghast  as  she  be 
held  the  ruin  before  her,  the  heap  of  dusty  rubbish  in 
the  room  where  we  had  just  hung  the  pink  curtains, 
and  which  she  had  said  was  "  so  sweet  it  made  her 
mouth  water." 

My  father  was  a  minister,  and  his  house  had  been  a 
hospitable  one.  So  many  people  made  it  headquarters, 
coming  as  suited  themselves,  that  we  children  were 
never  surprised  to  wake  in  another  room  than  the  one 
where  we  had  gone  to  sleep ;  we  only  wondered 
"  who  had  come."  Sometimes  these  frequenters  came 
all  at  once,  and  then  confusion  reigned.  On  such 
occasions  a  woman,  Nabby  Stone,  who  had  lived  with 
my  mother  early  in  her  married  life,  invariably  ap 
peared  also  to  relate  tales  of  her  domestic  woes,  and 
to  beg  for  old  clothes.  We  called  such  a  day  a 
Nabby  Stone  day ;  but  our  old  cook  always  spoke  of 
it  as  "  one  of  thim  'ere  days."  Now  this  was  a 
Nabby -Stone  day,  —  one  of  "  thim  'ere "  days.  I 
must  have  inherited  them. 

At  last  the  plaster  was  cleared  up,  the  windows  were 
left  open,  the  geese  submitted,  Douglas  looked  over 


Inside  our  Gate.  67 

the  gate,  and  we  began  to  think  that  the  pig  had  got 
over  the  stile,  when  — 

Our  dog  Scott  is  a  gentle  creature,  sensitive  to  an 
inflection  of  the  voice,  obedient  to  a  marvel,  but  he 
had  shown  a  desire  to  run  away.  Now,  we  didn't 
propose  to  own  a  dog  who  wished  to  live  with  some 
one  else,  so  Allan  chained  poor  Scott  in  the  back 
yard  for  several  days.  He  wailed  and  howled  and 
besought  to  be  released;  he  had  been  used  to  liv 
ing  with  the  family,  to  a  dainty  bit  at  the  table,  a 
warm  corner  in  the  nursery,,  and  he  was  very  much 
humiliated  at  being  chained.  This  morning  he  had 
seen  the  geese  brought  "  squawking "  in,  and  had 
greatly  desired  to  learn  further  particulars.  At  last, 
with  constant  pulling,  he  wriggled  the  little  stake  out 
of  the  ground  and  rushed  into  the  house,  dragging 
his  chain  after  him.  Upstairs  he  flew,  and  presented 
himself  without  warning  in  the  "  studio."  He  jumped 
on  Pauline ;  he  knocked  Douglas  down ;  he  barked 
at  the  geese.  Driven  from  the  "  studio,"  he  ran  to 
the  nursery  and  hid  under  the  bed,  whence  he  was 
soon  dragged  out,  chewing  little  Elinor's  rolling-pin 
to  bits.  He  caught  a  little  book  from  Elinor's  hand 
and  tore  it  to  pieces,  and  then  fled  downstairs  like 
an  escaped  convict. 

In   the  back-yard   our  next  neighbor's   sleek   little 


68  Inside  our  Gate. 

brown  dog  was  regaling  himself  with  a  plate  of  bones. 
He  was  Scott's  good  comrade,  the  friend  of  his  games, 
but  now  Scott  seized  him  by  the  throat;  he  shook 
him,  amid  yells  of  terror  from  the  little  dog,  till  Tibbie 
flew  to  the  rescue.  Away  dashed  Scott  to  the  clothes- 
yard,  where  "  Mr.  Yellow,"  our  most  respectable  and 
middle-aged  cat,  sat  on  a  box  viewing  the  conflict. 
He  dashed  at  this  new  victim.  Mr.  Yellow,  taken 
unawares,  fled  to  the  barn  for  safety.  Scott  caught 
him  on  the  way  by  his  long  yellow  tail  and  actually 
broke  it,  —  yes,  broke  his  tail,  so  that  though  under 
Tibbie's  pitying  care  it  healed,  it  never  waved  again, 
only  trailed  like  a  yellow  rag  behind  him  to  the  end 
of  his  days. 

What  an  hour  of  wild  oats  !  A  book  destroyed,  a 
rolling-pin  chewed,  a  dog  choked,  and  a  cat  with  a 
broken  tail ! 

After  this,  Scott  went  to  the  front  piazza  and  lay 
quietly  down,  panting  and  taking  little  naps.  Tran 
quilly  he  saw  hens  passing  by.  Unmoved  he  saw 
"  Robin  Hall,"  the  striped  cat,  spit  at  him  as  he  passed 
up  the  path.  He  did  not  bark  at  the  little  brown 
dog,  who  now  stood  on  his  hind-legs  on  his  own 
side  of  the  fence  and  looked  between,  the  pickets  at 
him.  He  never  noticed  the  suspender  pecller ;  and 
stranger  than  all,  when  Tibbie  at  dusk  brought  out 


Inside  our  Gate.  69 

the  three  geese,  and  according  to  Mrs.  Jones's  direc 
tions  set  them  down  in  the  road  heading  toward  their 
home,  he  let  them  waddle  off  unmolested.  He  crept 
into  the  house  early  in  the  evening,  apologized  to 
every  member  of  the  family  by  going  around  the 
room  and  licking  their  hands  and  looking  very  hum 
ble,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs. 

The  next  day  the  geese  were  brought  back,  the 
picture  was  finished,  the  mason  mended  the  ceiling, 
and  two  months  later  the  picture  was  sold,  and  hangs 
on  the  wall  of  a  charming  private  gallery  in  New  York. 

Pauline,  filled  with  remorse,  promised  to  paint  me 
a  picture.  I  asked  her  not  to  put  a  gate  in  it,  or  a 
goose,  or  a  basin ;  but  to  paint  me,  myself,  lying  in 
bed  in  a  nice  white  gown,  with  my  hands  folded  and 
my  eyes  closed. 

I  think  that  check  which  Pauline  fluttered  in  my 
face  ought  to  have  belonged  to  me. 


V. 


ONCE  upon  a  time,  years  ago,  before  I  ever  knew 
that  Allan  was  alive,  when  life  was  sweet  with 
out  Douglas  and  Elinor,  we  declared  one  spring,  with 
the  voice  of  the  united  family,  that  we  could  not  live 
another  Summer  without  a  house  of  our  own.  We 
did  not  aspire  to  a  country-house ;  we  only  wanted  a 
house  in  the  country.  We  were  the  kind  of  people 
made  not  to  board.  We  did  n't  like  to  do  fancy  work  ; 
we  did  n't  like  to  sit  on  a  piazza  dressed  up  from 
morning  till  night,  talking  of  things  we  had  no  interest 
in  to  people  we  did  not  care  for.  "  Summer  boarders  " 
as  a  class  are  dull  beyond  measure.  I  dare  say  in 
their  usual  surroundings  they  would  prove  interesting 
enough,  but  as  summer  boarders  they  seem  like  a  me 
nagerie,  —  the  polar  bear  from  his  ice  cake,  the  tiger 
from  his  jungle,  the  monkey  from  his  palm-tree,  and 
the  buffalo  from  his  prairie  forced  into  unnatural  sur 
roundings  and  showing  on  a  background  of  dingy 
canvas,  while,  to  follow  out  the  simile,  there  seems  to 
be  the  same  lack  of  sympathy  between  the  collection 
and  the  keepers. 


Inside  our  Gate.  71 

That  very  Spring,  all  unexpectedly,  we  got  our  wish. 
We  found  a  little  village  in  the  heart  of  nature  ;  it  lies 
there  still,  with  the  breath  of  the  pine  and  the  voice 
of  the  sea,  and  over  the  sea  the  south  wind  blowing. 

Our  cottage  stood  upon  a  hill  that  overlooked  a 
bay,  —  a  great  quiet  bay  lying  in  the  arms  of  the 
fields.  Dear  little  cottage  !  although  it  is  a  day  and 
night's  journey  from  my  own  home,  it  is  inside  my 
gate,  since  for  pleasant  memories'  sake  it  is  always 
inside  my  heart. 

We  were  the  first  city  people  to  go  to  the  village ; 
and  we  were  perfect  strangers  to  the  villagers.  We 
gathered  up  all  the  furniture  we  could  spare  from  our 
city  house,  bought  what  else  we  needed,  and  sent  it 
down  in  advance  to  be  stored  in  the  barn.  The  day 
came  for  our  departure,  and  we  were  in  the  gayest  of 
spirits,  although  we  knew  we  were  to  arrive  in  a  strange 
place  in  darkness,  at  an  unlighted  house.  But  our 
big  lunch-basket  was  well  stored ;  and  was  there  not 
kindling  ordered  for  the  fire  and  candles  to  light  us 
withal  ? 

But  what  a  wonder  !  When  the  stage  drew  up  at 
the  house,  the  lighted  windows  shone,  the  door  was 
ajar,  a  fire  upon  the  hearth  greeted  us,  and  in  the 
dining-room  the  table  was  set  and  covered  with 
dainties,  —  bread  white  as  milk,  delicious  cake,  a  blue- 


72  Inside  our  Gate. 

fish  in  the  oven,  and  doughnuts ;  such  doughnuts  ' 
light,  egg-shaped,  and  wrapped  in  a  mist  of  white 
sugar.  And  not  a  soul  was  there  !  It  was  like  the 
feasts  that  fairies  provide  for  wandering  princes  !  It 
had  seemed  a  hard  thing  to  some  kindly  souls  in  the 
village  that  strangers  should  come  at  night,  unwel- 
comed,  and  in  this  pleasant  way  they  had  made  us 
their  guests. 

"  The  captain's  nephew,"  from  whom  we  had 
bought  the  house,  —  he  had  urged  us  in  vain  to '  buy 
the  feather-beds,  —  had  flaunted  a  cellar  among  its 
attractions,  as  if  a  cellar  was  a  telephone  or  an  elec 
tric  bell ;  but  the  cellar  could  not  be  found,  —  no,  it 
could  not  be  found,  hunt  as  we  would,  outside  and  in. 
Doors  opened  into  bedrooms  and  into  closets ;  but 
no  door  admitted  us  to  a  cellar.  While  we  were  still 
hunting,  "  the  nephew,"  having  heard  that  the  cellar 
had  run  away,  called  in,  and  triumphantly  lifting  a 
trap-door  in  one  corner  of  the  painted  floor  of  the 
kitchen,  disclosed  a  dry  well,  —  a  whitewashed  well, 
with  shelves  round  its  sides  and  a  ladder  leading  into 
it.  The  cook  soon  learned  to  back  down  quite  grace 
fully,  when  occasion  required. 

The  "  nephew  "  said  there  was  a  good  "  dungeon  " 
too.  We  had  never  expected  to  own  a  dungeon  ;  and 
this  proved  to  be  a  little  cock-loft  in  the  roof.  We 


Inside  our  Gate.  73 

had  not  been  promised  a  big  pink  conch-shell  to 
keep  the  kitchen  door  from  closing  ;  but  it  was  there. 
There  were  no  fastenings  to  hold  up  the  windows ; 
concordances,  Greek  books,  and  histories  propped 
them  till  my  father,  in  desperation  at  the  vile  use  his 
beloved  books  had  come  to,  whittled  some  strong 
sticks,  and  after  that  we  gagged  the  windows.  The 
stairs  were  steep.  A  ship-carpenter  had  built  the 
house,  and  we  had  ropes  fixed  on  either  side  of 
the  enclosed  stairs  to  "  haul  ourselves  aloft."  The 
dining-room  we  called  the  secret  chamber,  because 
there  were  five  doors  in  it,  two  windows,  and  only 
enough  space  left  for  a  great  fireplace,  a  brick  oven,  and 
three  closets  in  the  wall.  There  was  a  little  door  in 
one  corner  about  two  feet  high,  opening  into  the 
kitchen,  which  we  supposed  must  have  been  for  the 
convenience  of  the  "  captain "  when  calling,  "  Al- 
phonso,  apportez  le  pate  de  foie  gras." 

Dear  little  house,  what  a  joy  it  was  to  us  all !  It 
was  our  first  own  house,  and  we  loved  it  like  a  first 
baby.  We  brought  woodbine  from  the  island  to  adorn 
it,  maples  from  the  wood,  and  brier-roses  from  the 
lane.  I  remember  one  day,  several  miles  from  home, 
seeing  some  magnificent  daisies  growing  in  a  thick 
white  border  round  a  potato-patch  in  a  field.  We 
sprang  out,  shovel  in  hand  (we  always  carried  a  shovel 


74  Inside  our  Gate. 

on  our  drives),  to  secure  some  roots.  At  that  very 
moment  the  owner  of  the  potatoes  appeared  upon  the 
scene  and  watched  us,  lost  in  wonder.  He  laughed 
scornfully  as  we  asked  his  leave  to  dig  up  the  daisies. 
He  evidently  thought,  upon  seeing  the  shovel,  that 
we  had  come  for  the  potatoes,  and  on  being  discov 
ered,  had  tried  to  cover  our  retreat  with  this  flimsy 
show  of  asking  for  daisies.  He  winked  as  he  re 
marked,  "They  ain't  many  folks  that  hires  a  wagon 
to  fetch  white  weeds  home." 

That  Summer  we  neighbored  with  the  bay  and  the 
woods,  and  with  the  flowers.  On  the  wall  before  me 
hangs  a  water-color  of  pink  bindweed  vines,  an  arm 
ful  of  them,  tangled  in  meadow  grasses.  I  remember 
a  Summer  morning,  the  day  just  breaking,  still,  fresh, 
dewy,  like  a  baby's  waking,  when  my  brother  Maurice 
and  I  sought  for  the  bindweed  blossoms  in  the 
meadows  by  the  bay.  It  was  high  tide,  and  the 
water  was  creeping  through  the  grasses  up  to  the  bind 
weed  vines.  That  meadow  must  half  forget  it  is  a 
meadow  when  the  tide  is  high. 

There  was  a  long  main  street  running  through  the 
village  north  and  south.  Toward  the  north  it  led 
through  a  sweet-scented  wood,  to  the  station.  We 
never  chose  that  road,  because  it  did  lead,  even  though 
through  miles  of  a  ferny,  green,  and  odorous  wood, 


Inside  our  Gate.  75 

toward  the  city's  heat  and  noise.  We  loved  to  take  the 
road  toward  the  east,  for  then  the  sea  always  seemed 
to  journey  with  us.  If  we  lost  it  when  we  rode  into 
the  valleys,  we  found  it  again  when  we  came  to  the 
hill-tops ;  when  the  pine  woods  hid  it,  still  we  knew  it 
was  there,  —  its  blue  expanse,  its  white-caps,  its  burden 
of  glittering  stars,  and  the  ships  on  the  horizon.  Here 
and  there,  where  the  white  beaches  curved,  lay  little 
groups  of  houses  ;  along  the  road  the  flowers  grew  thick 
and  sweet,  and  the  beach-grass  spread  its  spears  into 
the  tangled  thickets  of  wild  roses.  Now  and  then  we 
caught  glimpses  of  calm  blue  lakes  lying  in  green  hol 
lows,  and  on  the  distant  hills  lone  little  houses  stood. 

We  never  drove  to  the  end  of  that  road,  though  we 
went  miles  and  miles.  We  believed  that  it  was  like 
the  road  in  the  German  story,  which  went  on  and 
on  and  had  no  end. 

In  the  village,  roads  and  lanes  ran  hither  and  thither, 
but  always  somehow  reached  the  bay.  Along  the 
roads  tiny  whitewashed  cottages  were  scattered.  —  still, 
peaceful  homes,  you  'd  think,  yet  there  had  been 
strange  scenes  in  some  of  them,  for  love,  anger,  wild 
longings,  passions  live  wherever  souls  abide. 

Of  wood-roads  there  were  plenty,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing,  seemingly  only  for  our  pleasure,  untravelled, 
grassy,  berry-bordered  roads,  as  idle  as  we.  When  we 


76  Inside  our  Gate. 

wearied  of  driving,  or  rather  when  some  unusual  de 
mand  called  for  "  the  sorrel "  and  "  the  gray,"  we 
floated  in  our  little  sail-boat,  the  "You  and  I,"  about 
the  bay,  or  flitted  through  "  the  opening "  into  the 
open  sea  and  out  to  the  bell-buoy.  At  night,  if  we 
waked,  we  often  heard  the  bell-buoy  tolling,  or  the 
clock  of  the  high  white  church  on  the  hill  in  the  next 
village  striking  the  hour  in  the  stillness. 

When  we  tired  of  the  sea,  of  the  motion  of  the 
waves,  of  the  restless  bell-buoy,  we  could  still  take 
our  way  inland  rowing  on  a  silent  river  between  the 
mainland  and  the  island,  under  a  bridge  and  past  tiny 
islands,  and  close  by  little  pastures  which  seemed  like 
folds,  or  by  pine-trees  where  great  crows  alighted  on 
the  top-branches,  or  circled  about  waiting  for  their 
weary  comrades;  and  still  on,  past  serried  ranks  of 
cat-tails  in  the  swamps,  growing  in  neat  rows  as  if  they 
thought  they  were  rows  of  corn.  Cat- tails  never  grew 
in  that  way  in  years  gone  by,  I  am  sure  ;  I  think  they 
must  have  put  on  airs  since  they  have  come  into  fash 
ion  in  city  homes  and  studios.  Then  we  glided  into  a 
still  inland  bay,  —  for  we  were  on  a  tidal  river,  —  a 
little  salt-water  bay  that  had  never  seen  the  sea,  nor 
guessed  perhaps  of  its  grand  relative.  Its  shores  were 
low,  and  along  its  bank  spread  marshy  meadows  in 
pink  browns  and  golden  greens.  Along  the  curving 


Inside  our  Gate.  77 

path  of  this  silvery  river  we  swept  into  a  cove,  —  with 
surprise  the  first  time,  and  always  with  pleasure.  —  to 
find  a  little  house  and  mill,  nestling  in  such  stillness 
that  every  sound  we  made  startled  the  silence.  "  Our 
mill,"  we  called  it,  for  we  never  saw  a  soul  about  the 
place.  Rowing  homeward  in  the  early  evening  we 
passed  over  rose-tinted  water  under  the  bridge  toward 
the  setting  sun,  while  sometimes  overhead  stood  a  faint 
moon. 

We  made  acquaintance  too  with  the  great  island  in 
the  bay,  the  island  of  a .  thousand  acres,  with  steep 
wooded  shores  where  the  beach-plum  purples.  The 
grass  was  blue  with  berries,  and  red  with  the  mock 
cranberry ;  woodbine  garlanded  the  trees  till  they 
looked  like  bands  of  wood-nymphs.  Where  the  land 
lies  low  between  the  bay  and  sea,  just  at  "  the  open 
ing,"  the  little  gold  shells  glitter  and  the  scallop-shells 
tempt  the  children,  and  "  outside  "  the  real  sea-waves 
tumble  and  toss,  and  the  bell-buoy  lolls  and  tolls. 
Captain  Kidd's  gold  lies  on  that  island.  Ah,  yes,  it 
does  !  and  when  the  wind  blows  high  and  the  night 
is  the  darkest,  "  Hannah  Screechum's  "  voice  rises 
shrill  and  wild  above  the  tempest.  I  never  heard  it, 
—  I  am  at  home  on  dark,  wild  nights,  —  but  Cap 
tain  Lif '  has  heard  her  time  and  time  again,  and  he 
knows. 


78  Inside  our  Gate. 

A  pretty  grass  grows  all  about  the  fields  and  road 
sides,  the  merest  threads  for  stems,  with  the  tiniest  of 
dark-red  seeds  hanging  thick  upon  them.  In  the  early 
morning,  when  the  spiders'  webs  cover  the  fields,  — 
webs  of  dewy  silver,  —  this  grass  shows  through  the 
gauze  in  most  exquisite  lilac  and  purple,  and  the  fields 
seem  covered  with  heliotrope.  Yes,  the  very  grasses 
I  know  well,  for  I  know  my  little  village  as  a  mother 
knows  her  baby. 

There  is  a  pleasant  walk  to  the  East  Bay,  over  a  hill 
wooded  with  low  pines ;  the  path  winds  in  and  out 
around  bayberry  clumps  and  berry-bushes  as  if  to  ac 
commodate  them,  and  many  little  brown  birds  are  al 
ways  hopping  about  there.  Though  the  hill  is  half  a 
mile  from  the  sea,  the  little  path  is  all  of  white  sea- 
sand.  Asters,  yellow  and  white,  grow  there  in  the 
late  Summer  days  as  freely  and  as  kindly  as  if  they  had 
good  earth  to  sustain  them.  From  the  hill  you  look 
over  great  stretches  of  the  purple  marsh  rosemary, 
and  turning  to  the  left,  where  the  bluffs  used  to  stretch 
in  lonely  beauty,  lo  !  Queen  Anne  has  been  there,  as 
the  line  of  red  roofs  along  the  far  shore  tells  us. 

And  here  I  must  introduce  Mary  Ellen,  a  member 
of  the  family  who  is  specially  associated  in  my  mind 
with  this  village.  One  afternoon,  several  years  be 
fore  we  found  our  country  home,  going  into  the  par- 


Inside  our  Gate,  79 

lor  of  our  city  house,  I  found  a  Maltese  cat  sitting 
sedately  in  a  chair,  as  if  to  receive  callers.  From  that 
moment  of  her  appearance  she  became  a  member  of 
the  family.  We  had  had  cats  by  the  dozen,  but  never 
a  cat  like  this  one.  We  always  felt  that  she  was  a 
human  being  in  the  form  of  a  cat,  and  that  the  spell 
might  be  broken  at  any  moment, —  for  instance,  on  the 
seventh  day  of  the  seventh  month,  or  by  the  influence 
of  some  special  strain  of  music  heard  by  chance.  She 
possessed  something  of  the  spirit  of  Mr.  F's  aunt,  in 
the  scorn  with  which  she  looked  upon  the  follies  of 
the  world  and  the  foibles  of  mankind. 

Somehow,  I  don't  remember  just  how  it  was,  the 
name  of  Mary  Ellen  settled  upon  her.  It  should  have 
been  Thomas,  but  as  Dick  said,  since  that  name  has 
descended  upon  her,  let  it  pass  for  a  nom  de  plume. 
So  his  name  was  Mary  Ellen,  and  not  being  able  to 
break  the  meshes  of  habit,  we  always  spoke  of  him 
as  "she." 

As  I  said,  she  at  once  became  a  member  of  the 
family.  We  had  small  doubt  that  she  could  talk  had 
she  chosen.  Her  face  was  very  expressive,  and  she 
was  evidently  full  of  thoughts ;  but  she  adopted  the 
plan,  so  to  speak,  of  communicating  with  us  through 
interpreters,  employing  us  by  turn  as  mediums,  and 
availing  herself  of  our  services  as  a  busy  man  uses 


So  Inside  our  Gate. 

a  typewriter.  She  freely  took  part  in  the  family  dis 
cussions  and  conversations.  Subjects  approached  in 
a  gingerly  manner  by  other  members  of  the  family,  — 
personal  matters  —  she  struck  directly  at. 

The  mediums  spoke  with  a  peculiar  accent,  and  in 
a  tone  slightly  resembling  a  mew.  Any  sentiment  ex 
pressed  in  this  tone  was  known  at  once  to  be  Mary 
Ellen's. 

The  youngest  member  of  the  family,  who  often 
fretted  under  pointed  remarks  from  his  elders  on 
toilet  and  table  manners,  received  orders  from  Mary 
Ellen,  unruffled. 

If  some  hesitation  was  shown  about  giving  Maurice 
permission  to  go  to  a  base-ball  match  a  mile  away, 
Mary  Ellen  would  perhaps  remark,  through  Dick, 
"  There  are  those  who  forget  that  they  were  once 
young ;  "  or  if  an  older  brother  knew  it  was  not  a  fit 
place  for  the  little  brother,  Mary  Ellen's  "  Mejum  " 
would  say,  "  Never  think  of  it,  —  base-ball !  fiase-bM  ! 
Why,  the  evil  is  written  on  its  very  face  !  I  shall  not 
attend  to-day  myself.  When  I  go,  you  shall."  The 
little  boy  would  laugh  and  give  in,  when  he  would  have 
balked  at  an  ordinary  denial. 

Mary  Ellen  did  not  spare  the  weakness  even  of 
the  elders  of  the  family.  "  There  is  a  gentleman  in 
this  State,"  she  would  say,  "  not  to  mention  county 


Inside  our  Gate.  81 

or  town,  or  narrow  it  to  this  room,  who  has  carried 
an  important  letter,  unmailed,  in  his  pocket  for  three 
days.  Let  me  never  hear  of  this  sort  of  thing  again  ! 
You  know  a  letter  is  not  a  jack-knife  or  a  lead-pencil, 
to  live  in  a  pocket ;  it  is  written  to  send  somewhere." 
Then  father  would  laugh.  He  had  been  known  to 
say  at  other  times,  "  Dear  me,  those  letters  !  Well, 
why  will  you  give  me  letters  to  mail  when  the  house 
is  full  of  boys?  " 

She  once  gave  a  description  of  herself.  "  I  am,  to 
begin  with,  a  cat,  —  a  Maltese  cat ;  I  suppose  a  Knight 
of  Malta  very  likely,  but  called  by  the  unlearned,  Malty. 
I  am  a  multum  in  parvo,  an  e pluribus  unum,  which  I 
will  explain.  I  have  a  tongue  which  can  lap;  it  is 
also  a  comb ;  the  other  side  of  it  is  a  soft  brush,  a 
pink  flesh-brush,  a  dish-towel.  I  have  a  good  supply 
of  liquid  soap  in  my  mouth,  which  I  take  to  be  "  Bab 
bitt's  Best."  My  eyes  gaze  equally  well  upon  the  sun 
lit  day  or  moonlit  night.  I  wear  a  white  diamond  on 
my  breast ;  diamonds  are  valuable,  —  mine  is  an  inch 
each  way.  When  I  sit  down  I  have  well-filled  pockets 
on  each  side,  —  I  should  judge  there  was  a  large 
orange  in  each  one ;  but  strange  and  inexplicable  as 
it  may  appear,  as  soon  as  I  rise  to  get  an  orange  to 
present  to  a  friend,  pockets  and  oranges  alike  disap 
pear.  Since  some  of  the  arts  are  lost,  and  some  of  the 
6 


82  Inside  our  Gate. 

tribes  are  lost,  I  suppose  I  need  not  wonder  that  my 
pockets  are  lost.  When  I  am  short  of  subjects,  I  often 
think  of  these  things.  Some  folks  don't  know  about 
them,  and  so  of  course  they  can't  think  of  them." 

One  Spring,  the  lease  of  our  city  house  having  ex 
pired,  we  took  another  not  many  blocks  away.  After 
a  day  or  two  Mary  Ellen  was  missing.  We  would 
have  advertised  for  our  beauty  with  a  reward,  but  that 
a  friend  of  ours  who  had  done  that,  giving  an  exact 
description  of  her  yellow  cat,  was  made  wretched  for 
a  week  by  having  dozens  of  cats  brought  to  her  house, 
of  every  variety,  from  young  kittens  to  old  veterans 
of  the  fences,  black,  striped,  gray,  of  every  color  ex 
cept  yellow. 

Finally  Maurice  and  I  bethought  ourselves  of  going 
to  one  of  our  neighbors  in  the  street  we  had  left. 
She  inquired  of  her  cook,  who  declared  she  knew  the 
cat,  and  had  seen  her  about  the  yard  and  fences. 
"  A  very  large  wild  Malty  cat."  We  could  n't  imagine 
Mary  Ellen  wild,  but  we  offered  the  cook  a  reward  if 
she  would  entice  this  Maltese  cat  into  the  cellar. 

One  night  a  servant  came  to  say  that  the  cat  was 
caught.  They  had  set  a  saucer  of  milk  just  inside  the 
cellar  door,  and  then  shut  the  door  from  the  outside. 
"  But,"  said  the  girl,  "  Mrs.  Holden  says  you  can't  get 
her  now,  she  is  afraid ;  for  Mrs.  Holden  and  all  the 


Inside  our  Gate.  83 

boarders  have  been  down  calling  her ;  and  she  is  be 
hind  the  furnace  where  all  the  empty  tin  cans  are, 
a- howling  most  awful." 

Maurice  and  I  went  at  once  to  the  house.  The 
"  boarders  "  had  retired  to  their  rooms,  and  silence 
reigned  in  the  cellar.  At  the  top  of  the  cellar  stairs 
I  stood  and  called,  "  Mary  Ellen,  Mary  Ellen,  poor 
old  pussy  ! " 

A  shriek  of  joy,  a  meaw  of  delight;  the  tomato-cans 
could  be  heard  rolling  in  all  directions ;  a  scramble, 
and  up  the  stairs  flew  Mary  Ellen,  and  jumped  into 
my  arms.  The  cook  was  astonished  j  she  "  never  see 
anything  like  it,"  she  said.  Mary  Ellen  let  the  family 
pat  her,  and  then  she  went  to  Maurice,  who  carried 
her  home  in  his  arms  purring  as  she  cuddled  up  to 
him.  She  could  never  hear  tomato-cans  referred  to 
afterward,  —  that  subject  she  wished  to  be  blotted 
out  from  the  topics  of  conversation,  also  "  boarders." 

Mary  Ellen  had  never  been  in  the  country  before 
the  year  we  bought  the  cottage.  We  had  often  re 
membered  her  by  sending  fresh  catnip  to  her  in  let 
ters  when  we  were  away,  so  that  she  had  some  inkling 
of  the  joys  of  country  life ;  but  now  that  we  were  to 
have  a  house,  of  course  she  was  to  go,  —  she  and  the 
setter  pup  Don,  whose  sworn  enemy  she  was. 

I  laugh  now  when  I  think  of  the  carriage  in  which 


84  Inside  our  Gate. 

we  went  to  the  station,  Mary  Ellen  and  I ;  for  no  one 
of  the  family  would  go  in  the  carriage  with  us.  She 
got  out  of  the  shawl  in  which  she  was  wrapped,  and 
scrambled  all  over  the  carriage  ;  it  was  a  Maltese  car 
riage  by  the  time  we  got  out.  I  gave  the  driver  a 
good  extra  fee  to  brush  the  hairs  off,  but  it 's  on  my 
conscience  that  I  did  n't  give  him  half  enough. 

At  the  station  I  met  Maurice  with  his  pup,  which 
was  all  wriggle  and  paws,  with  a  stick  for  a  tail.  I 
had  entirely  concealed  Mary  Ellen  in  the  shawl,  but 
it  was  an  animated  bundle  that  I  bore.  In  one  corner 
of  the  station  Maurice  suggested  that  he  should  put  the 
few  things  from  his  valise  into  my  bag,  and  that  we 
then  put  Mary  Ellen  into  the  valise.  We  did  it,  and 
instead  of  locking  the  valise  we  only  tied  the  handles 
together,  to  give  her  air.  Then  when  the  train  was 
ready,  I  walked  bravely  out  with  my  bag,  through  the 
opening  of  which  sometimes  a  gray  nose  sniffed,  and 
sometimes  a  gray  tail  waved  or  a  gray  paw  clawed, 
covered  by  the  shawl  over  my  arm. 

In  the  car  I  put  the  valise  on  the  seat  beside  me. 
The  rest  of  the  family  were  ashamed  of  us,  and  sat 
quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  As  the  conductor 
reached  out  for  my  ticket,  the  bag  rolled  off  the  seat ; 
he  politely  picked  it  up.  At  once  it  rolled  off  the 
seat  again ;  he  picked  it  up  once  more ;  but  before 


Inside  our  Gate.  85 

he  could  move  on,  it  was  a  third  time  at  his  feet,  and 
as  he  stooped  to  take  it,  a  veritable  spit  sounded  from 
its  depths,  and  a  gray  paw  struck  at  him.  Maurice, 
the  conductor,  and  I,  all  laughed  outright,  as  the  valise 
rolled  on  the  floor. 

The  morning  after  our  arrival,  I  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  saw  Mary  Ellen  plunging  clumsily,  head 
first,  down  the  trunk  of  a  big  cherry-tree.  Right  be 
hind  her  a  striped  cat,  who  had  apparently  been  giving 
her  lessons  in  bird-killing,  was  coming  down  slowly, 
sailor-fashion,  head  up,  paw  after  paw.  Poor  city 
Mary  Ellen  ! 

In  a  yard  across  the  street  I  saw  hens  complacently 
clucking  about  in  an  enclosure  surrounded  by  a  fish 
net  stretched  between  poles.  After  breakfast,  Maurice 
showed  me  a  bird's  nest  in  an  apple-tree.  A  little 
brown  bird  owned  it,  and  the  nest  was  woven  chiefly 
of  bleached  ribbons  of  the  seaweed.  We  had  seen 
that  same  sort  of  little  bird  in  the  White  Mountains, 
and  her  nest  there  was  made  of  silver  birch  bark 
stripped  fine. 

Mary  Ellen  was  an  apt  pupil ;  she  soon  brought  a 
big,  strange-looking  bird  into  the  house.  It  had  a 
large  beak ;  but  it  was  tailless.  We  rescued  it  from 
her,  and  I  kept  it  in  my  room  for  several  days,  feeding 
it  carefully.  No  one  knew  what  sort  of  bird  it  was, 


86  Inside  our  Gate. 

if  not  a  young  owl ;  but  young  owls  have  tails.  Mary 
Ellen  felt  the  loss  of  her  victim  very  keenly,  and 
sat  all  day  by  my  door,  hoping  for  a  chance  to  re 
capture  it. 

Then  the  bird  died,  and  Maurice  dug  it  a  grave 
and  buried  it  under  the  big  willow.  Mary  Ellen 
followed  the  remains  as  chief  mourner,  and  could 
hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  leave  the  spot.  The  next 
day  Hilda,  in  sweeping  Maurice's  room,  moved  the 
bed,  and  behind  it,  in  a  far  corner,  found  the  bird's 
tail.  Mary  Ellen  looked  thoughtful  when  it  was  shown 
to  her,  but  she  made  no  explanations. 

Often  poor  town-bred  Mary  Ellen  sat  in  the  door 
way  and  gazed  earnestly  and  solemnly  at  the  long 
row  of  willows  along  the  fence.  As  the  leaves  trem 
bled  and  quivered,  her  face  grew  sharp  and  her  little 
nose  twitched,  —  they  tempted  her  as  birds  in  motion 
would ;  but  if  a  breeze  sprang  up  and  the  boughs 
swayed,  and  the  whole  lithe  tree  waked  to  life,  she 
was  startled,  her  ears  lay  back,  she  glared  with  her 
green  eyes,  then  suddenly  she  would  turn  and  fly  up 
stairs  to  hide  till  her  fright  was  over.  She  had  never 
known  trees  before,  or  rather,  she  felt  that  these  were 
wild  untamed  creatures,  not  like  the  stiff  young  maples 
in  our  city  street,  which  lived  in  green  wooden  cages 
and  could  n't  get  at  her. 


In-side  our  Gate.  87 

One  day,  a  little  cousin  who  was  visiting  at  our 
house  was  kept  indoors  by  a  cold,  and  to  amuse  him 
I  made  a  bonnet  for  Mary  Ellen.  It  was  called  an 
opera  bonnet,  as  it  had  a  great  deal  of  white  lace, 
blue  strings,  a  red  rose,  and  a  big  ostrich-feather. 
She  wore  with  it,  over  the  face,  a  black-lace  veil 
dotted  with  beads.  About  her  shoulders  she  had  a 
plaid  blue-and-white  silk  handkerchief.  She  began 
to  walk  backward  as  soon  as  she  was  put  upon  the 
floor,  remarking  that  she  had  often  heard  of  back 
sliders,  but  had  never  been  one  before,  and  singing 
as  she  backed,  — 

"  Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight !  " 

She  said  she  was  in  the  right,  because  ladies  always  back 
out  of  Victoria's  drawing-room ;  and  that  if  one  can 
back  out  of  a  bargain,  why  not  back  out  of  a  bonnet  ? 

Soon  after  this  a  neighbor  whose  little  sister  had 
been  ill  came  to  borrow  Mary  Ellen  to  show  her  in 
her  gorgeous  array  to  the  invalid ;  so  Mary  Ellen  was 
decked  out  and  went  off  in  the  young  lady's  arms. 
Hardly  halfway  to  her  destination,  overcome  with 
fright,  she  struggled  away  from  Miss  Helen,  and  fled 
to  parts  unknown.  This  was  in  the  morning,  and 
nothing  more  was  seen  of  the  poor  pussy  that  day, 
though  Miss  Helen  brought  home  the  ostrich-plume, 


88  Inside  our  Gate. 

the  little  girl  from  across  the  street  found  the  red  rose 
and  the  veil  in  her  barn,  and  the  shawl  was  fluttering 
over  the  grass. 

The  next  morning  when  Hilda  opened  the  kitchen 
door  at  dawn,  there  sat  Mary  Ellen,  jaded  and  hag 
gard,  her  soft  fur  rough  and  brushed  up  the  wrong  way, 
and  her  tail  full  of  burrs.  The  opera  bonnet  was  still 
tied  round  her  neck,  only  the  blue  bow  of  the  strings 
was  behind,  and  the  bonnet  hung  in  front  like  a  bib. 
She  was  generally  rather  loquacious,  and  willing  to  de 
scribe  scenes  through  which  she  had  passed ;  but  of 
this  escapade  she  refused  to  disclose  anything.  Her 
spirit  declined  to  speak  through  the  mediums ;  and  the 
details  of  that  adventure  will  have  to  stand  along  with 
Sir  John  Franklin's  exploration,  and  the  names  of 
those  who  built  the  Pyramids. 

Mary  Ellen  assumed  such  high  and  mighty  airs  that 
it  amused  the  family  to  help  her  carry  out  her  plans. 
There  was  one  chair,  easy  above  all  the  other  easy- 
chairs,  in  which  she  always  settled  herself.  When  she 
walked  solemnly  into  the  parlor,  whoever  happened  to 
be  in  that  chair  would  rise  and  offer  it  to  her,  and  she 
always  accepted  it  as  her  right,  without  thanks.  But 
there  was  one  person  —  my  mother  —  who  not  only 
would  not  give  it  up  to  her,  but  would  push  her  out 
when  she  wanted  the  chair  herself.  Then  Mary  Ellen 


Inside  our  Gate.  89 

would  sit  facing  her  on  the  floor,  glaring  at  her  with 
green  glassy  eyes  till  her  patience  was  exhausted  or 
her  indignation  had  cooled,  when  she  would  take  the 
next  best  place.  She  was  supposed  on  this  account  to 
cherish  rooted  animosity  to  my  mother  ;  and  one  day 
she  wrote  an  essay,  one  of  the  boys  being  the  medium 
this  time,  with  the  title,  "  Pride  must  have  a  fall." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  call  persons  out  by  name,"  said 
she ;  "  but  there  is  one  present  whose  pride  is  too 
high.  Some  day  she  '11  fall,  —  she  '11  fall  out  of  a  certain 
chair  if  she  is  n't  humbler. .  Cats  were  sacred  among 
the  Egyptians ;  you  never  were.  Your  clothes  don't 
fit  well ;  mine  do,  —  just  see  how  they  fit  round  my 
eyes  and  claws.  You  have  only  one  life ;  I  have  nine. 
You  may  not  look  upon  a  king ;  I  can." 

Mary  Ellen  loved  a  siesta  in  a  certain  low  clump  of 
lilacs  by  the  fence,  so  Maurice  put  an  old  knit  shawl  in 
its  depths ;  and  almost  always,  if  she  was  not  in  the 
parlor,  and  was  called,  she  would  emerge  from  "the 
bower  which  Eveline  wove,"  as  she  called  it.  If  a 
newspaper  was  put  upon  the  floor,  tent-fashion,  she 
would  at  once  go  and  sit  under  it,  remarking,  "  Speak 
ing  of  caves,  how  is  Machpelah  getting  on  ?  "  Some 
times  we  bought  clams  for  her,  and  while  they  were 
cooking  (for  she  would  not  eat  them  raw)  she  would 
sit  on  a  kitchen  chair  and  inhale  the  fragrant  steam, 


90  Inside  our  Gate. 

sniffing  and  wiggling  her  nose.  I  Ve  seen  "her  eat  a 
live  eel,  remarking  as 'we  passed,  "Why  gaze  at  me? 
A  former  queen  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  sat  in  a  yel 
low  satin  gown  and  ate  a  squirming  fish." 

Once  Mary  Ellen  had  a  habit  of  lying  on  the  win 
dow-seat  against  the  mosquito  netting ;  it  was  only 
cotton  netting,  and  as  she  lolled  against  it,  it  sagged 
with  her  weight  and  made  a  sort  of  little  hammock. 
The  Venetian  shade  was  down  one  day,  and  a  guest, 
who  was  calling,  sat  with  her  back  against  the  blind. 
Suddenly,  just  at  the  lady's  shoulder  a  loud  sneeze 
was  heard.  She  sprang  from  her  seat ;  we  all  ran  to 
the  window,  where  a  struggle  was  going  on  behind  the 
shade  ;  and  pulling  this  aside,  we  saw  the  netting  give 
way  and  Mary  Ellen's  portly  form  descend  to  the 
ground  with  a  thud  !  The  lady  was  a  stranger  and 
had  never  met  Mary  Ellen ;  and  as  she  did  not  see 
the  cat,  yet  heard  us  cry,  "  Oh,  it  was  Mary  Ellen  ! " 
we  always  felt  from  her  manner  afterward,  although 
we  made  a  full  explanation,  that  she  had  saddled  us 
with  a  crazy  relative  who  stood  outside  the  parlor 
windows  and  sneezed  at  callers. 

In  the  Fall,  when  we  went  back  to  the  city,  Mary 
Ellen  went  in  her  shawl.  As  we  entered  the  station, 
whom  should  we  see  sitting  there  but  Senator  Charles 
Sumner.  He  soon  rose  from  his  chair  and  went  out 


Inside  our  Gate.  91 

upon  the  platform.  Mary  Ellen  in  her  gray  fur  gown 
at  once  jumped  into  the  chair,  and  sat  there  as  calmly 
as  if  she  felt  that  it  was  as  well  filled  as  before. 
She  often  alluded  to  that  journey  as  "  the  time  Charles 
Sumner  and  I  sat  in  the  same  chair,"  or  "the  day 
when  Charles  Sumner  and  I  travelled  up  from  our 
town,"  —  boasting  of  her  fine  associates,  after  the  fash 
ion  of  her  betters. 

For  six  Summers  Mary  Ellen  accompanied  us  to  the 
cottage,  and  grew  familiar  with  the  journey  and  wi'th 
all  the  pleasures  of  country  life.  At  the  end  of  that 
sixth  Summer  my  father  and  Tom  had  gone  up  to  vote. 
My  mother  and  Hilda  had  preceded  them,  for  we  were 
again  moving  into  a  new  house,  and  much  had  to  be 
done ;  and  Sarah  the  cook  was  left  with  Maurice  and 
me  to  close  the  house. 

To  "close  the  house"  meant  to  get  the  various  odds 
and  ends  up  to  the  city ;  and  the  list  comprised  Don, 
Mary  Ellen,  Cousin  Kitty's  guitar,  a  bundle  of  canes 
and  umbrellas,  a  great  armful  of  mossy  branches  and 
twigs,  handbags  and  shawls.  There  were  three  of  us 
to  divide  the  spoils.  It  was  easy  enough  getting  to 
the  station,  but  getting  into  the  cars  was  quite  another 
affair.  The  stage-driver  took  a  part  of  our  bundles 
in  his  arms,  and  led  the  procession  up  the  car  aisle, 
facing  the  passengers.  Everybody  smiled.  We  cer- 


92  Inside  our  Gate. 

tainly  looked  like  a  travelling  circus  with  trained  an 
imals.  Mary  Ellen  stuck  her  head  out  of  her  shawl  j 
Don  got  under  our  feet.  After  we  were  settled  in 
the  seat  at  the  farthest  extremity,  a  jocose  woman 
walked  the  whole  length  of  the  car  to  present  me 
with  one  small  cone  that  had  dropped  from  my 
pine-branches. 

At  last  we  reached  the  city.  Sarah  took  a  car 
riage  with  the  inanimate  objects,  and  Maurice  and  I 
shared  a  carriage  with  Don  and  Mary  Ellen.  It 
was  a  weary  drive.  Every  time  the  carriage  swayed, 
Mary  Ellen  thought  Don  was  coming  to  attack  her, 
and  she  kept  herself  in  a  warlike  attitude  during  the 
entire  drive,  with  a  perfectly  tigerish  expression  on 
her  face. 

We  descended  from  the  carriage  and  entered  the 
new  house.  Mary  Ellen  gazed  around  her  in  despair ; 
this  was  not  home.  She  sprang  from  my  arms,  rushed 
into  the  dining-room,  thence  into  the  pantry,  jumped 
into  the  dumb-waiter,  which  was  unfastened,  de 
scended  with  a  terrible  thump  and  a  clatter  of  spoons 
and  forks  to  the  lower  regions,  fled  through  the  open 
door  before  the  astonished  Hilda's  eyes,  and  never  was 
seen  again  by  the  eyes  that  had  beheld  her  so  long. 
We  always  had  considered  her  as  some  one  trans 
formed,  and  so,  since  the  time  of  her  departure,  we 


Inside  our  Gate.  93 

have  often  thought  we  discovered  traces  of  her  ex 
pression  or  voice  or  manner  in  people  we  have  met. 
There  was  one  old  lady  of  whom  we  had  strong  sus 
picions  ;  a  sudden  twitching  of  the  nose,  and  the  way 
she  caught  her  ball  of  worsted  when  it  fell  upon  the 
floor,  were  very  suggestive.  It  was  a  suspicious  cir 
cumstance  also  that  the  old  lady  wore  blue  glasses  to 
conceal  her  eyes.  Of  course  it  was  impossible  to  ask 
the  question,  and  so  the  mystery  remains;  but  we 
think — nothing  can  prevent  us  from  thinking  —  well, 
I  was  always  good  to  her,  and  it  was  n't  a  month  after 
she  went  that  I  made  Allan's  acquaintance.  Let  those 
carp  who  will. 

Don  the  setter  —  who  was  also  our  comrade  for  years, 
and  who  was  taken  back  and  forth  to  the  country  every 
year  —  was  as  mild  as  a  May  morning,  except  to  hens. 
My  mother  was  not  fond  of  animals,  but  Don  was  de 
termined  to  gain  her  favor.  Several  times  one  Sum 
mer  he  brought  in  a  dead  hen  and  presented  it  to 
her.  Not  meeting  with  the  reward  he  had  expected, 
he  brought  one  day,  by  the  legs,  a  fine  white  hen, 
alive  and  cackling  with  terror.  We  inquired  for  the 
owner  diligently,  but  he  never  was  found,  and  we 
presented  the  hen  to  one  of  our  neighbors.  Don 
received  so  many  whippings  for  killing  hens,  that  at 
last  he  arranged  a  little  plan  for  his  own  pleasure. 


94  Inside  our  Gate. 

When  he  saw  a  hen,  he  would  dash  at  her  and 
squeeze  her  till  she  "  squawked,"  and  then  let  her  go 
in  a  cloud  of  loose  feathers. 

One  season  there  was  a  "  dry  spell,"  and  as  there 
were  few  wells  in  the  region,  people  looked  on  their 
cisterns  and  hogsheads  of  water  as  on  gold.  One 
afternoon,  while  taking  a  drive,  we  passed  a  little  house 
all  shut  up,  as  if  the  family  were  out  for  the  afternoon. 
Don  made  a  raid  into  the  yard,  and  jumped  into  a  great 
sunk  tub  of  water  by  the  kitchen  door,  where  he  wal 
lowed  and  splashed  and  stirred  up  its  depths  as  only  a 
setter  can  ;  then  he  flew  on  after  us.  When  we  came 
back  at  dusk,  the  house  was  open  ;  a  woman  was  set 
ting  a  table  in  the  kitchen,  and  we  saw  a  man  carrying 
a  pail  of  water  into  the  kitchen  door,  —  we  hoped  not 
for  the  tea-kettle  !  I  've  always  felt  mean  when  I  Ve 
passed  that  house  since  then. 

Don  was  a  very  mild  dog,  as  I  have  said ;  but 
one  morning,  as  he  was  lying  in  the  kitchen  door,  a 
"  vegetable  man  "  suddenly  turning  the  corner  startled 
him  from  his  nap.  He  flew  at  the  man,  caught  him 
by  the  trousers,  and  ripped  one  leg  nearly  up  to  the 
waist.  The  man  shrieked  ;  and  that  sent  Hilda  flying 
into  the  parlor.  My  mother,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
the  man  was  bitten  and  that  he  was  very  angry,  ven 
tured  to  the  door  to  ask  about  it.  There  stood  the 


Inside  oiir  Gate.  95 

"  vegetable  man  "  holding  the  cloth  about  his  leg,  and 
when  he  saw  her  he  asked  in  a  very  mild  tone  if  she 
would  please  lend  him  a  thread  and  needle.  "  I  really 
must  apologize,"  he  said,  "for  coming  so  suddenly 
upon  the  dog.  He  is  quite  excusable  ;  but  I  regret 
this  rent,  because  I  have  on  my  best  pants.  My  wife 
insisted  on  my  wearing  them,  as  I  was  coming  to  the 
village  ;  but  it  can't  be  helped  now." 

Hilda  gave  him  a  stout  thread  and  needle,  and 
he  sat  on  the  back  step  and  "sewed  himself  up." 
Meanwhile,  my  mother,  quite  taken  aback  by  his  mild 
manner,  sought  out  a  pair  of  my  oldest  brother's 
trousers  and  brought  them  to  him  and  gave  him  two 
dollars. 

"  I  am  under  great  obligations  to  you,  ma'am,"  said 
he.  "These  pants  I  have  only  cost  three  fifty,  and 
the  pair  you  have  given  me  are  worth  fully  that. 
I  am  afraid  my  wife  will  think  I  have  overreached 
you.  You  must  let  me  give  you  a  basket  of  pears." 

My  mother  insisted  on  buying  the  pears,  and  he 
went  off  in  very  high  spirits,  saying,  "  Don't  blame 
the  dog ;  he  was  entirely  excusable,  entirely." 

Some  weeks  after  this  my  brother  couldn't  find  a 
certain  pair  of  trousers  that  he  wanted  to  wear. 
They  were  almost  new,  he  said ;  and  he  was  sure  he 
left  them  in  his  closet  when  he  went  to  the  city. 


g6  Inside  our  Gate. 

My  mother  opened  her  eyes  at  me.     "  Were  they  ex 
pensive  trousers?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  only  paid  twelve  dollars  for 
them ;  but  they  were  new,  and  I  liked  them." 

The  fate  of  those  trousers  became  a  family  mystery. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  insulting  way  when 
you  speak  of  those  trousers,"  Mary  Ellen  would  say, 
through  Maurice,  who  had  no  idea  where  the  trousers 
had  gone.  "  I  always  wear  clear  gray  myself,  and 
neither  borrow  nor  lend." 

Don  never  told,  though  he  might  have  excused 
himself  on  the  same  ground. 

Don  could  never  get  walking  enough.  He  would 
come  and  beg  the  boys  to  take  him  out ;  he  could  n't 
bear  to  walk  alone.  If  Tom  said,  "  Maurice,  do  you 
want  to  go  for  a  walk  ?  "  Don  would  start  out  of  the 
deepest  sleep  and  be  ready  on  the  instant.  When 
they  did  not  wish  his  company,  they  would  spell, 
"Do  you  want  to  go  for  a  walk?"  In  a  few  days 
he  learned  the  meaning  of  the  syllables.  You  might 
spell  a  long  string  of  words,  while  he  stood  staring  in 
tently  at  you,  and  the  instant  "  D-o  y-o-u  w-a-n-t,"  was 
introduced,  he  was  frantic  with  eagerness  to  be  off. 
Always  after  prayers  my  father  took  him  for  a  walk. 
He  began  to  look  on  morning  devotions  as  a  neces 
sary  but  foolish  preliminary  to  a  promenade,  as  the  cat 


Inside  our  Gate.  97 

in  "  Middlemarch  "  looked  on  the  setting  of  the  tea- 
table  as  a  foolish  preliminary  to  her  saucer  of  milk. 
When  morning  prayers  began,  Don  always  sat  sedately 
in  the  corner  with  a  heavy  and  serious  countenance. 
As  the  prayer  approached  its  end,  his  interest  quick 
ened,  his  ears  stood  up,  and  finally  when  "  Amen  " 
was  pronounced,  he  burst  from  his  place  with  a  wild 
yelp  of  joy, — Amen  meaning  in  his  ears,  "  Come  on, 
old  fellow,  it  is  time  for  our -walk."  He  was  a  spoiled 
dog,  the  baby  of  the  family,  and  obeyed  only  the  dic 
tates  of  his  own  sweet  will.  He  always  insisted  on 
going  to  the  bay  with  us  when  we  went  sailing,  though 
having  by  experience  found  him  an  uncomfortable 
shipmate  in  a  small  boat,  we  tried  to  shut  him  in  the 
barn  before  we  left. 

But  one  day,  before  setting  out  for  a  sail,  we  could 
not  find  him.  When  we  reached  the  bay,  however, 
there  he  was,  slinking  round  the  boat-house.  He 
evaded  us  till  we  were  well  off,  when  he  ran  around 
the  shore,  expecting  to  meet  us  on  the  other  side. 
Seeing,  after  a  minute,  that  we  did  not  mean  to  land 
on  the  opposite  shore,  he  flung  himself  into  the  water 
and  swam  for  the  boat.  Then  he  tried  to  scramble 
up  the  side,  wailing,  dripping,  shivering,  whining,  till 
Maurice  could  stand  it  no  longer  ;  and  making  us  all 
sit  on  one  side,  he  dragged  the  wretched  creature  into 
7 


98  Inside  our  Gate. 

the  boat,  and  up  on  the  deck,  where  Don  proceeded 
to  shake  himself,  much  to  my  mother's  disgust. 

As  he  continued  to  shiver,  Maurice  got  from  the 
cabin  an  old  ulster  and  put  it  on  him.  He  put  Don's 
fore-legs  into  the  sleeves,  turned  up  the  cuffs,  buttoned 
the  coat  up  in  front,  and  then  made  him  sit  in  the 
corner  of  the  seat  by  the  cabin.  There  he  sat,  warmed 
and  comfortable,  but  with  his  head  wet  and  a  despon 
dent  expression  on  his  face,  the  funniest  old  mariner 
ever  seen. 

Maurice  made  up  a  story  for  him  of  a  shipwreck  on 
the  brig  "  Mary  Ellen,"  —  how  he  was  anxious  to  get 
home  to  his  widowed  mother  and  seven  young  chil 
dren,  whose  only  support  he  was ;  how  he  lost  his 
chest  and  his  ship,  —  and  there  he  sat,  the  water 
dripping  from  his  chin  and  nose,  looking  as  if  he  knew 
every  word  of  it  was  true,  and  was  indorsing  it  by  his 
solemn  attention. 

Elinor  and  Douglas  never  tire  of  hearing  of  Don 
and  his  adventures;  they  know  him  from  his  photo 
graph,  sent  us  by  the  friend  to  whom  he  was  given. 
They  were  very  sober  when  they  heard  that  he  had 
died,  at  an  advanced  age  ;  and  though  I  had  not  seen 
the  dear  old  fellow  for  years,  it  gave  me  a  pang  to 
know  that  he  had  left  the  world. 

That  first  Summer,  —  there  have  been  sixteen  Sum- 


Inside  our  Gate.  99 

mers  since,  —  we  never  went  on  an  errandless  drive ; 
there  was  a  chronic  errand,  —  andirons  and  spinning- 
wheels. 

One  day,  in  the  woods,  we  met  an  old  man  driving 
an  open  wagon.  He  was  the  old  man  who  "  brought 
fruit  round,"  and  both  he,  and  his  horse  with  the  false 
tail,  were  familiar  objects  in  the  village.  This  day  he 
was  "  carting  "  herring  and  strawberries. 

"  The  man  in  the  wilderness  he  asked  me 
How  many  strawberries  grew  in  the  sea ; 
And  I  answered  him,  as  I  thought  good, 
As  many  red  herring  as  grow  in  the  wood." 

We  had  never  expected  to  meet  that  historic  person ; 
yet  here  he  was. 

Another  day  we  chose  a  long  road  which  led  up 
toward  a  point  of  high  land,  from  which  we  had  heard 
there  was  a  most  beautiful  view ;  but  to  see  it  we  must 
pass  through  the  private  grounds  belonging  to  the 
great  mansion  on  the  bluff.  We  stopped  a  man  on 
the  road  to  ask  him  if  the  owner  of  the  place  allowed 
people  to  drive  through  his  grounds.  He  looked  us 
carefully  over.  "  Well,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  you 
can  go ;  the  gate  ain't  locked,  and  he  won't  hurt  yer. 
For  myself,  I  should  n't  venture.  He  is  one  of  them 
big  bugs,  —  nobody  ain't  good  enough  for  him ;  he  is 
what 's  called  an  obstreperous  man." 


ioo  Inside  our  Gate. 

Tom  took  up  the  reins,  the  sorrel  adjusted  his  joints 
for  a  start,  but  the  man  lingered ;  he  had  evidently 
something  on  his  mind. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  that  when  that  house  was 
done,  the  day  the  folks  moved  in,  my  wife,  who  's  a 
very  neighborly  sort  of  a  woman,  says  to  me,  '  I  Ve 
moved  twice,  and  I  know  how  it  is,  and  I  Ve  a  mind 
to  send  Anson  up  with  two  of  my  fresh  pies  this 
mornin' ;  if  J  was  new  here,  I  'd  thank  them  for  doing 
it  for  me.'  My  wife  's  a  great  pie-baker.  So  up  she 
sent  'em,  and  pretty  soon  little  Anson  conies  back 
with  fifty  cents  for  the  pies.  I  never  see  my  wife 
so  worked  up.  She  cried,  and  I  was  mad ;  for  Anson 
said  he  told  'em  they  was  a  present.  So  that  evenin' 
I  took  the  two  quarters  and  I  went  up  myself  and 
asked  for  the  owner.  He  come  out,  very  grand,  but 
he  could  n't  scare  me ;  and  so  I  told  him  that  we  was 
neighbors,  and  the  pies  was  a  present.  And  he  says, 
'  Thank  you,  but  my  wife  prefers  to  pay  for  them.' 
So  I  flung  the  quarters  on  the  table,  and  says  I,  '  I  'm 
no  pie-pedler ;  I  'm  an  American  citizen,  and  I  s'posed 
you  was.'  And  I  went  home." 

Poor  fellow,  the  iron  of  that  bitter  sarcasm  about 
the  American  citizen  he  was  sure  had  entered  into  the 
soul  of  the  haughty  aristocrat.  We  sympathized  with 
him.  We  told  him  that  we  wished  his  wife  had  sent 


Inside  our  Gate.  101 

the  pies  to  us ;  and  then  we  drove  on.  We  did  n't 
care  to  "  see  the  view." 

We  could  see  the  mansion-house  across  the  water 
from  our  cottage.  All  that  day  we  looked  at  it  with 
a  certain  awe,  as  if  a  flaming  sword  guarded  the  gate 
way.  The  owner  of  the  house  possessed  a  sort  of 
fascination  for  us,  so  near  and  yet  so  far  he  seemed 
from  our  little  world.  We  began  to  make  merry  over 
him ;  we  wondered  if  he  tasted  the  pies  and  liked 
them.  We  tested  everything  we  owned  by  his  imagined 
standard.  We  learned  that  his  name  was  Brampton- 
Wells.  Tom  called  him  Stratford-on-Avon.  Judging 
from  the  hyphen,  that  blow  of  "  the  man's  "  had  been 
a  light  one.  An  American  citizen  —  why,  that  was  no 
glory  to  him,  probably. 

During  the  Summer  we  received  a  letter  from  a 
friend  of  ours  who  lived  abroad,  saying  that  her  cousin, 
Mrs.  Brampton- Wells,  had  a  Summer  house  in  the 
town  where  we  were  living,  and  that  she  should  write 
to  her  to  call  on  us. 

That  made  us  merrier.  We  knew  our  friend  would 
forget  to  write,  we  knew  the  letter  could  n't  reach  town 
that  season  if  she  did ;  but  we  began  to  prepare  sub 
jects  of  conversation.  Of  course  we  must  n't  mention 
"  trading  "  with  the  old  man  with  the  false-tailed  horse 
for  "sickle  pears,"  nor  speak  of  buying  peanuts,  freshly 


IO2  Inside  our  Gate. 

roasted,  from  the  "baker's  cart."  We  decided  that 
we  would  let  my  father  read  Homer  aloud  while  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Brampton- Wells  were  knocking  at  the  door, 
and  that  different  members  of  the  family  should  enter 
the  room  during  the  call,  asking  for  Browning,  Emer 
son,  and  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica.  There  was  a 
wide  field  for  conjecture,  as  we  didn't  know  on  what 
they  prided  themselves. 

If  Mrs.  Brampton- Wells  called,  my  cousin  Kitty  was 
to  speak  of  Worth  as  being  her  dressmaker  (Kitty 
had  one  of  her  aunt's  dresses,  which  came  from  him, 
made  over  twice  for  herself),  or  to  allude  to  a  relative 
who  had  been  of  high  rank  in  the  Revolutionary 
army.  Kitty  thought  she  'd  speak  too  of  the  por 
tiere  she  saw  in  Paris,  made  from  the  yellow  satin 
gown  of  the  Emperor  of  China.  Maurice  said  he  'd 
ask  if  anything  had  been  heard  of  the  lost  Pleiad 
lately. 

Tom  said  he  had  thought  it  hard  enough  to  live  up 
to  his  mother's  standard ;  but  he  'd  give  in  even  to  this 
new  one,  if  Mrs.  Brampton- Wells  would  dare  to  walk 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  front  of  his  mother.  She 
always  took  exception  to  our  gait,  or  to  the  set  of  our 
clothes,  and  she  would  often  say  to  us,  but  especially 
to  Tom,  who  had  had  a  good  law  practice  for  years, 
"  Hold  up  your  head,"  or  "  Turn  out  your  feet,  dear ; 


Inside  our  Gate.  103 

throw  back  your  shoulders."  She  could  never  believe 
we  were  not  children. 

As  the  whole  family  could  not  get  into  the  carriage 
at  once,  we  would  say  that  one  or  another  must  stay  at 
home  to-day  for  fear  Mr.  Brampton-Wells  might  call. 
That  has  been  a  good  little  joke  ;  it  has  lasted  well. 

Once  in  a  while  nowadays  we  wonder  if  Mrs. 
Brampton-Wells  will  notice  if  we  turn  the  skirt  of  a 
dress,  or  if  Mr.  Brampton-Wells  will  approve  the  cut 
of  a  new  coat.  We  don't  know  whether  the  gentleman 
is  alive  or  dead ;  we  never  saw  his  face ;  but  for  us  he 
is  immortal. 

Mrs.  Smith,  the  friend  who  had  given  us  the  setter 
pup,  was  very  much  interested  in  our  little  house.  As 
soon  as  we  were  settled,  we  asked  her  to  visit  us.  A 
few  days  before  she  came,  she  sent  us  a  big  box  of 
plants  from  the  greenhouse  "  to  adorn  the  garden."  We 
had  not  dreamed  of  having  a  garden.  Portulaca  seed 
had  been  scattered  through  the  grass  the  year  before, 
and  now  the  bright  little  flowers  of  every  color  peeped 
up  here  and  there.  My  mother  wanted  a  rockery, 
and  as  there  were  no  stones  to  speak  of  on  our  land, 
we  had  had  a  cart-load  brought  from  the  beach ;  but 
the  earth  was  poor,  the  plants  withered  away,  and  the 
rockery  became  a  jest  and  a  by-word.  When  Cousin 


IO4  Inside  our  Gate. 

Ferris  came  to  see  us  he  thought  it  was  one  of  those 
places  mentioned  in  Scripture,  where  every  one  pass 
ing  by  wagged  the  head  and  cast  a  stone. 

We  had  tried  to  have  a  little  bed  of  nasturtiums 
near  the  front  door.  Maurice  spaded  it  up  and  en 
riched  the  earth ;  but  Mary  Ellen  at  once  chose  it 
for  a  resting-place,  and  for  hours  would  lie  stretched 
at  length  in  the  soft  retreat,  and  the  seeds  declined 
to  come  up.  We  remonstrated  with  her,  and  stuck 
little  sticks  in  the  flower-bed ;  but  she  scratched  them 
up  and  took  her  siesta  as  usual.  She  remarked  that 
"  the  ones  who  first  called  it  a  bed  were  the  ones  to 
quarrel  with ;  she  'd  never  thought  of  lying  there  till 
she  heard  it  spoken  of  as  a  bed,  and  then  she  felt  she 
was  only  doing  the  appropriate  thing  to  lie  upon  it." 
So  we  gave  up  the  nasturtiums. 

When  Mrs.  Smith's  present  came,  we  at  once  had 
a  great  bed  made  in  the  front  yard,  rounded  up  with 
a  high  mound  of  rich  earth,  and  then  the  thrifty  plants 
were  set  out,  some  in  flowering  glory.  My  father  did 
the  work ;  but  we  instructed  him  if  he  saw  Mr.  Bramp- 
ton-Wells  coming,  to  rush  into  the  side-yard  and  lie 
down  in  the  hammock  with  the  Greek  Testament  in  his 
hand ;  or  if  he  should  be  actually  caught  at  work,  to 
speak  in  a  broad  Irish  brogue,  as  if  he  were  the 
gardener. 


Inside  our  Gate.  105 

Mrs.  Smith  arrived.  We  were  so  glad  that  the  big 
mound  was  done.  After  tea  we  sat  in  the  little  parlor, 
each  watching  the  other's  mouths  to  get  a  chance  to 
speak,  when  my  father  said,  "  Oh,  turn  your  head,  Mrs. 
Smith,  and  see  the  beautiful  flowers  you  sent  us,  set 
out  and  thriving  finely." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window,  then  turned  to  us 
with  a  blank  expression.  We  looked  out  too,  and 
there,  where  the  fine  mound  had  been,  was  a  great 
deep  hole,  while  Don,  with  all  his  soul  in  his  work, 
was  industriously  throwing  out  the  last  of  our  fine 
garden  with  his  hind-legs. 

We  never  tried  to  have  a  flower-garden  after  that 
first  Summer.  But  what  need  of  a  garden  when  the 
fields  all  around  us  were  bright  with  flowers,  —  lupines 
and  great  pink  marshmallows,  and  mulleins  reigning 
in  velvet  grandeur,  —  where  rosemary  purpled  the 
marsh  meadows,  and  roses,  daisies,  yes,  and  cardinal- 
flowers  too  in  their  season,  abounded  along  lanes  and 
roads?  Ah  me,  how  clearly  we  remember  the  days 
when  we  went  gypsying  J 


VI. 

LIFE  was  never  dull  to  Tibbie.  After  the  heroes  had 
sailed  to  one  far  port  and  another,  a  cat  interest 
arose.  "  Tommy  Barn  "  had  died,  and  the  family 
were  "  short  of  cats,"  as  Douglas  said.  A  neighbor 
who  had  an  over-supply  of  kittens  presented  Tibbie 
with  a  yellow  one  that  was  introduced  under  the 
name  of  Mr.  Yellow.  He  was  a  mild  "  beastie,"  and 
would  allow  Elinor  to  build  block-houses  around  him, 
and  sleep  calmly  just  where  she  placed  him.  Tibbie 
soon  developed  the  talent  of  the  "  Pied  Piper,"  and 
from  church  and  shop,  kittens  and  cats  appeared  in 
her  train.  "  Thomas  Shannon,"  a  striped,  plump  kit 
ten,  was  named  for  our  nurse's  brother,  and  "  Robin 
McNair  "  for  a  friend  of  Tibbie's.  Then  a  melancholy 
gray  cat  appeared  one  morning  sitting  on  the  kitchen 
window-sill.  She  was  a  good  fat  cat,  but  of  a  sad 
frame  of  mind,  so  that  she  even  paused  in  her  meals 
to  call  attention  to  her  woes  like  a  street  beggar,  willy- 
nilly  ;  and  we  named  her  "  Mrs.  Gummidge." 


Inside  our  Gate.  107 

Two  wild  cats  from  the  barn  became  domesticated, 
and  lay  in  the  kitchen  with  easy  minds,  as  if  it  were  a 
sort  of  cats'  club-room.  The  wild  cats  we  called 
"  Granny  Gray  "  and  the  "  Wild  Daughter."  It  was  a 
common  occurrence,  but  always  an  exciting  one,  when 
kittens  arrived.  When  Tibbie  came  into  the  nursery 
with  her  apron  gathered  up  in  her  hand,  that  meant 
kittens.  The  choosing  followed,  and  then  the  nam 
ing,  and  invariably  a  near  day  of  loud  lamenting  over 
the  sudden  and  unaccountable  absence  of  the  larger 
number  of  the  treasures.  .  Tibbie  gave  a  distinct  per 
sonality  to  each  cat.  Granny  Gray  Tibbie  represented 
as  a  most  devoted  mother  and  amiable  old  lady.  At 
one  time  the  Wild  Daughter  had  kittens.  Mysterious 
disappearances,  sudden  disasters,  thinned  the  family 
down  to  one,  a  certain  "  Bobby  White."  Granny,  real 
izing  that  her  daughter  was  young  and  flighty,  and  with 
the  usual  tenderness  of  a  grandmother,  adopted  Bobby, 
and  let  his  mother  lie  for  long  naps  in  luxurious  ease 
in  Tibbie's  kitchen. 

One  day  the  sad  news  came  to  the  nursery  thac 
Bobby  White  was  very  ill.  The  children  went  out  to 
the  barn  with  Tibbie,  where  she  had  arranged  a  nice 
little  hospital,  with  bits  of  old  carpet,  and  a  saucer  of 
milk  in  which  catnip  had  been  steeped.  Tibbie 
helped  the  children  up  the  ladder,  and  then  they  saw 


io8  Inside  our  Gate. 

the  strange  sight  of  little  Bobby  White  lying  between 
his  grandmother  and  his  mother.  First  one  cat  and 
then  the  other  would  lick  his  pretty  fur ;  but  there  was 
no  help  either  in  love  or  catnip  for  Bobby,  and  he 
soon  stretched  out  his  little  legs  and  died. 

"  'T  was  a  sad  and  yet  an  improvin'  sight,"  said  Tib 
bie  to  me,  "  to  see  them  twa  wise  folk  o'  cats  a-sittin' 
by  their  deid.  The  human  beasties  that  neglects  their 
bairns  could  gaze  wi'  profit  an'  gang  away  wi'  bowed 
heid." 

A  neighbor  who  owned  a  fine  Jersey  cow  had  not 
sufficient  pasturage  for  her  in  his  yard,  so  we  invited 
the  cow  to  be  a  guest  in  our  orchard  and  back-yard. 
We  had  not  expected  to  provide  her  with  social  joys ; 
but  Tibbie,  with  her  love  of  animals,  at  once  took  the 
cow  into  her  affections  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
in  her  society.  About  every  half  hour  she  pulled  up 
the  stake  and  led  the  cow  to  fresh  fields  and  pastures 
new.  She  watered  her  till  I  thought  there  couldn't 
be  a  drop  of  milk  left  in  her.  She  selected  apples  for 
her.  The  cow  soon  looked  upon  her  as  a  dear  friend, 
and  lowed  with  joy  whenever  she  appeared. 

One  day  the  great  barn  door  was  open,  and  also  the 
back  door  which  led  out  into  the  fields,  that  were  owned 
by  a  German  farmer  and  were  then  green  with  thrifty 


Inside  our  Gate.  109 

tomato-plants.  Mistress  Moolly  pulled  up  her  stake 
and  went  unseen  by  any  of  us  through  the  barn,  and 
hurried  over  the  fields,  —  doubtless,  poor  mother,  in 
search  of  her  calf,  which  the  day  before  had  been 
taken  from  her.  Tibbie  supposed  that  the  owner 
had  sent  for  the  cow,  and  till  she  happened  to  be 
in  the  barn  late  in  the  afternoon  she  did  not  know 
that  Moolly  had  fled.  As  she  stood  in  the  back  door, 
she  saw  two  men  hurrying  over  the  field.  They  came 
to  her  with  the  sad  tale  that  the  cow  had  destroyed 
five  dollars'  worth  of  the  plants.  They  took  the  cow 
to  her  own  home,  and  the  cow's  master  settled  with 
them  for  the  mischief  she  had  done.  But  Tibbie  was 
uneasy,  and  felt  that  she  had  not  kept  her  eye  as  she 
might  on  the  "beastie." 

One  day  shortly  after  this,  Tibbie  flew  upstairs  in 
terror.  It  was  a  busy  day;  I  had  guests,  and  every 
moment  was  worth  a  great  deal  to  me. 

"The  cow  has  gone  again,"  said  Tibbie. 

I  hurried  downstairs ;  Douglas  looked  in  the  coal- 
shed,  in  the  trees,  over  the  fence,  and  down  the  street. 
We  ran  to  the  barn.  The  back  door  was  locked.  She 
must  have  jumped  over  the  fence.  In  despair  I  told 
Tibbie  to  put  on  her  hat  and  run  to  the  village  to  tell 
the  owner  the  news. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  the  "lady  of  the  house"  when 


no  Inside  our  Gate. 

she  heard  Tibbie's  message.  "  How  much  trouble 
we  have  put  you  to  !  "  And  she  sent  out  word  to 
the  boy  in  the  barn  to  go  and  hunt  up  the  cow. 

"  Run  away  !  "  said  the  boy,  "  where  to?  " 

"Where,  to  be  sure?"  said  Tibbie. 

"She  couldn't  jump  a  five-foot  fence,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  It 's  no  more  nor  three  foot,"  said  Tibbie. 

The  boy  opened  the  back-door  of  the  barn  where 
he  sat,  and  looked  out  There  was  the  cow  con 
tentedly  grazing  in  a  little  yard  enclosed  with  a  high 
board-fence. 

"  Hoo  did  she  git  here  ? "  demanded  Tibbie,  in 
great  surprise.  "  She  must  hae  leapet  our  front  gate 
an'  come  home  by  the  road." 

"She  never 's  been  to  your  house,"  said  the  boy. 
"  Mr.  William  told  me  not  to  take  her  to-day." 

Then  Tibbie  remembered  that  she  had  n't  seen  the 
cow  that  morning.  She  described  the  scene  to  me 
when  she  returned,  almost  breathless. 

"I  war  more  amazed  to  see  that  cow  than  war 
Saul  when  he  descried  his  father's  asses  approachin'," 
she  said ;  "  an'  noo  to  my  dinner." 

We  began  to  feel  as  if  we  were  to  have  a  regular 
succession  of  ages  under  Tibbie,  like  the  Paleozoic 


Inside  our  Gate.  in 

and  Mesozoic.  After  the  cat  era  and  the  cow  era, 
came  the  hen  era. 

As  fate  would  have  it,  we  owned  a  hen- yard ;  and 
when  one  of  our  neighbors  who  was  leaving  town 
wanted  to  sell  his  hens,  it  seemed  the  most  appro 
priate  thing  for  us  to  buy  them.  Thenceforth,  Tib 
bie  thought  of  little  but  hens.  She  fairly  lived  in  the 
hen-house ;  and  bran-pudding  and  corn  and  crumbs 
took  the  lead  of  food  for  the  family.  Tibbie  had 
the  "hen  fever."  Now  we  were  to  have  eggs  and 
pressed  chicken.  She  placed  unwilling  hens  on  nests, 
and  insisted  on  their  "setting."  She  chased  them 
back  to  business  if  they  were  caught  strolling  about ; 
and  finally  the  hens  gave  in  and  consented  to  "  set" 
Forty  young  chickens  came  out ;  and  Tibbie  became 
more  deeply  interested  than  before. 

"Six  hens  and  forty  chickens,"  said  Tibbie,  in 
triumph. 

One  night  we  were  roused  from  slumber  by  the 
sounds  of  warfare,  —  growling  under  the  window, 
barking  in  the  back-yard,  sudden  "  squawks,"  omi 
nous  silences. 

"  It  is  a  dog  eating  the  chickens,"  said  I ;  "  and 
good  luck  to  him !  May  he  eat  up  the  whole 
forty !  " 

But  in  the  morning  only  twenty  were  found  dead. 


112  Inside  our  Gate. 

Instead  of  lessening  Tibbie's  vigilance,  the  need  of 
guarding  the  remnant  was  more  apparent  than  be 
fore.  The  hens  were  chased  into  the  yard  every 
afternoon  and  locked  up,  but  the  number  lessened 
day  by  day.  One  day  Elinor,  in  going  to  the  barn, 
passed  by  one  old  hen  that  was  scratching  vigorously 
for  a  large  brood  of  chickens.  The  child  tripped,  and 
the  old  hen,  terrified  for  her  chickens'  safety,  flew  right 
in  the  little  girl's  face,  pecking  and  flapping  her  wings 
furiously.  A  roar  of  terror  and  pain  reached  Tibbie's 
ears.  She  rushed  out  and  rescued  the  "  lassie,"  who 
was  borne  into  the  house  in  a  very  limp  condition. 
Strange  to  say,  the  old  hen  had  scratched  her  little 
cheeks  and  beat  her  wings  in  her  face  till  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  were  bloodshot.  For  some  time  Elinor 
classed  hens  among  wild  beasts  ! 

Finally  between  dogs  and  rats  and  cats  and  an 
occasional  family  feast,  the  number  of  hens  was  re 
duced  to  three.  One  of  these  had  stolen  a  nest  un 
der  the  barn  late  in  the  Fall,  against  Tibbie's  re 
monstrances,  and  produced  one  chicken,  the  feet  of 
which  had  been  frozen,  and  he  clumped  about  on  two 
clawless  pegs.  I  could  hardly  resist  throwing  a  penny 
to  the  poor  little  image  as  I  passed  him  bravely 
stumping  down  the  path. 

One  day  Allan,  happening  to  hear  an  Irishman  in 


Inside  our  Gate.  113 

the  village  say  that  he  was  going  into  the  "  hen  trade," 
presented  him  with  the  few  remaining  fowls.  And  so 
we  were  left  with  an  empty  hen-yard  again. 

Tibbie  was  generosity  itself;  but  her  sense  of  justice 
was  very  keen.  Not  a  hair's  breadth  would  she  allow 
herself  to  be  overreached.  She  was  exceedingly  angry 
at  the  boys  that  slipped  into  the  yard  and  stole  fruit, 
and  was  always  laying  traps  for  them.  One  night 
she  heard  some  one  shaking  the  pear-tree  near  the 
kitchen,  —  a  tree  which  bore  delicious  early  pears,  — 
and  she  at  once  flew  out  with  a  bundle  of  kindling- 
wood  which  she  threw  recklessly  into  the  tree.  The 
boys  hastily  retreated  over  the  back  fence.  She  then 
gathered  the  pears  on  the  ground,  and  kept  a  light  in 
her  window  all  night  as  a  warning  to  the  boys.  Before 
dawn  she  rose  and  cleared  the  tree  and  the  grass  of 
fallen  fruit.  Shortly  after  this  she  was  rejoiced  to  see 
two  little  colored  girls  —  sisters  of  the  marauders  of 
the  night  before,  as  she  suspected  —  come  in  at  the 
large  gate  with  a  great  basket  and  proceed  to  the  pear- 
tree  and  begin  to  search  in  the  grass  for  pears. 

"  Guid-mornin',"  said  Tibbie's  voice  at  the  kitchen 
door. 

"  Good-mornin',''  said  the  biggest  girl ;  "  please 
ma'am,  may  we  have  some  pears?" 


114  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  Surely,"  said  Tibbie, "  why  not?  Help  yourselves ; 
there  's  a  ladder  if  you  wish  to  climb  the  tree." 

She  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  them  as  they 
picked  up  a  few  gnarly  or  decayed  pears  and  threw 
them  away. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  suggested,  "  that  tree  has  n't  bore 
this  year." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  has,"  replied  the  little  girls ;  "  it  was  full 
last  night." 

"Hoo  do  you  know?"  asked  Tibbie,  severely. 
"Noo  gang  awa'  an'  tell  your  brithers  frae  me  that 
all  our  fruit-trees  is  to  be  swished  o'er  wi'  a  wash 
of  parish  green ;  and  I  hope  they  '11  come  and  eat 
all  the  pears  they  want." 

There  was  a  dangerous  light  in  Tibbie's  eye,  I 
imagine,  for  the  little  girls  suddenly,  as  she  told  me, 
took  to  their  heels  and  fled. 

Tibbie's  return  from  one  of  her  trips  to  the  city  was 
an  exciting  time,  though  the  excitement  really  began 
before  she  started.  After  having  decided  to  go  on  a 
certain  morning  train,  she  would  proceed  to  lay  out 
work  enough  to  keep  her  at  home  all  day ;  perhaps 
she  would  decide  to  make  raisin-cake,  —  the  stoning 
of  the  raisins  alone  occupying  at  least  an  hour,  —  or 
she  would  take  Elinor's  best  big  collars  to  iron.  Once, 


Inside  our  Gate.  115 

after  the  raisins  were  stoned,  she  realized  that  either 
her  journey  or  the  cake  must  be  given  up,  and  she 
stayed  at  home  to  finish  the  cake ;  another  time  she 
put  the  things  away,  even  after  she  had  sifted  the  flour. 

On  these  occasions  I  would  send  the  nurse  flying 
to  the  kitchen  to  say  that  if  she  were  going  on  the 
eleven  o'clock  train  she  must  hurry,  as  it  was  nearly 
eleven.  "  More  haste,  less  speed,"  she  would  reply 
coolly.  About  ten  minutes  before  the  train  left  she 
would  dash  to  her  room  and  reappear,  fresh  and 
blooming,  flurried  but  confident. 

"  Tibbie,"  I  would  call  as  she  left  the  house,  "  you 
can't  catch  that  train." 

"Surely  I  must,"  she  would  reply,  and  start  to  run 
down  the  street. 

Then  she  would  of  course  arrive  too  late,  and  have  to 
sit  an  hour  in  the  station.  Once,  thinking  it  a  pity  to 
waste  the  time  there  waiting  for  the  next  train,  she  re 
turned  home  and  with  her  bonnet  on  assisted  the  nurse 
in  getting  lunch,  —  and  was  too  late  for  the  next  train. 

She  always  came  to  my  room,  on  her  return  from 
the  city,  to  relate  her  adventures,  and  Allan  always 
made  an  errand  there  to  hear  the  story.  She  would 
stand  in  the  doorway  with  her  purchases  in  her  arms, 
introduce  each  package  to  me  and  state  the  reason  for 
buying  each  article. 


1 1 6  Inside  our  Gate. 

She  was  once  very  much  amused  by  a  clerk's  trying 
to  urge  upon  her  a  pair  of  long  buttonless  kid  gloves. 
"  I  asket  him,"  said  Tibbie,  "  if  he  took  me  for  a  fule, 
a-paying  for  kid  that  was  poked  awa'  up  under  me 
sleeves,  or  did  he  think  I  'd  wear  it  all  wrinkled  aboot 
me  arm,  like  a  stockin'  wi'out  a  garter ;  sae  I  just  left 
the  shop  an'  gaed  awa'  to  '  Eight  Aveney,'  where  I 
asket  for  some  lisle-thread  gloves.  I  asket  a  young 
fellow  for  them,  and  instead  o'  fetchin'  them,  he  just 
leant  quite  over  the  counter,  an'  says  he,  '  Lass,  when 
cam  ye  frae  Glasky?'  I  was  quite  took  aback,  for 
I  've  clear  forgot  all  my  Scotch  speech,  sae  I  replied 
tae  him,  '  Hoo  kenned  ye  that  I  cam  frae  Glasky  at 
a'?'  Says  he,  smilin,'  'Lass,  ye'r  speech  bewrayeth 
ye,'  an'  then  stretchin'  his  han'  across  tae  me,  says 
he,  *  I  've  been  three  weeks  oot ;  an'  this  is  the  first 
word  I've  heard  o'  Glasky  speech.  Gie  me  your 
han',  lass ;  when  frien's  meet,  hearts  warm.'  We  had 
a  verra  pleasant  discourse,"  added  Tibbie,  "  an'  he 
desired  me  to  call  in  again  an'  have  another  con 
ference  wi'  him.  He  didna  ken  any  o'  my  folk,  but 
I  discoursed  wi'  him  on  the  Burns  Monument  an' 
on  St  George's  Cross.  He'd  bought  things  at  all 
the  shops  at  Glasky,  an'  he  'd  been  tae  Mr.  Dunlop's 
church;  so  it  was  all  verra  consolin'  tae  him,  puir 
laddie." 


Inside  our  Gate.  117 

Sometimes  Tibbie  would  come  home  lugging  a  great 
market-basket  which  she  had  borrowed  from  her 
cousin,  full  of  things  she  thought  would  tempt  our 
appetites,  and  which  we  could  not  get  in  our  town. 
Once  she  saw  what  she  thought  to  be  a  remarkably 
cheap  dish-pan  and  tin  dipper;  and  she  bore  them 
along  with  her  great  armful  of  paper  packages.  If  she 
promised  to  come  home  the  same  night,  we  were 
as  sure  of  her  coming  as  of  the  darkness  itself.  But 
once  she  failed  to  appear;  the  late  trains  came  in, 
but  no  Tibbie.  I  felt  anxious  and  fearful  that  some 
ill  had  overtaken  her. 

As  she  probably  could  not  get  a  train  in  the  morning 
early  enough  to  bring  her  before  breakfast,  I  planned 
for  Rosy,  who  was  taking  Mary's  place  for  a  week,  to 
get  the  breakfast.  About  six  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
Rosy  came  running  to  the  nursery,  and  waked  me 
and  the  children,  crying  that  Tibbie  was  in  the  kitchen 
making  the  fire. 

I  ran  down  in  my  wrapper,  and  there  was  Tibbie 
stepping  briskly  about  the  kitchen,  and  singing  her 
favorite  song,  "  Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch." 

"  Where  in  the  world  were  you,  Tibbie,  last  night  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tibbie,  "as  I  got  oot  o'  the  horse-car 
in  New  York,  I  slippet,  an'  hangin'  on  to  the  car  to 


n8  Inside  our  Gate. 

straighten  meseP,  I  wrenched  me  wrist,  me  left  wrist. 
I  almost  fainted  wi'  the  pain ;  an'  a  gentleman  an'  a 
policeman  helpet  me  into  a  chemist's,  where  the  young 
man  done  me  up.  An'  then  I  had  to  remain  till  the 
pain  was  over ;  so  when  I  got  to  the  depot,  the  last 
train  was  left,  an'  so  I  jus'  walket  oot." 

"  Walked  out  six  miles  !  not  alone,  Tibbie,  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  night?" 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Tibbie.  "  I  Ve  nae  fear  o'  ghosts 
nor  goblins,  nor  the  Evil  One  himsel',  and  there  wad 
no'  be  likely  to  be  folk  a-walkin'  about  for  pleisure 
on  a  railroad  track  at  that  time  o'  night.  There  are 
them,"  added  Tibbie,  pointedly,  "  whas'  souls  are  filled 
wi'  superstition,  like  them  that  bows  to  stocks  and 
stones.  There  's  Wully  Mann  at  home ;  he  told  me 
that  in  the  kirkyard,  by  the  auld  kirk,  he  'd  seen 
spirits  a-goin'  '  blunk,  blunk,'  on  the  graves  o'  unbap- 
tized  infants.  'An' what  for?' says  I.  '  That 's  what 
I  dinna  ken,'  says  he ;  '  but  I  gaes  twa  miles  oot  o' 
my  way  to  avoid  them.'  '  Puir  silly  lad,'  says  I ; 
'  it 's  the  Will  o'  the  Wisp  an'  nae  spirits  that  costs  ye 
that  lang  road  an'  wears  oot  ye'r  bittes  or  ye'r  ain 
hide.' 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Tibbie,  making  ready  to  peel  the 
potatoes ;  "  it  will  be  a  braw  time  when  we  can  be 
set  free  frae  the  frailties  and  follies  o'  th'  flesh." 


Inside  our  Gate.  119 

"  But,  Tibbie,  where  did  you  stay  last  night  ?  " 
"  Weel,  I  didna  wish  to  arouse  ye ;  an'  sae  I  went 
to  Mistress  Kennedy's  an'  routed  them  up,  an'  I  cam 
here  before  light  an'  got  in  the  coal-house  window.  I 
knew  if  I  wasna  here  to  lock  up  that  Rosy  wud  leave 
some  place  open.  She  'd  locked  the  front  door  secure 
I  kenn'd  weel.  She  's  aye  thinkin'  o'  the  front  o'  every 
thing;  her  gown  is  brawer  nor  her  underclaes,  an'  her 
front  hair  maun  be  crimpet,  though  the  back  is  rough 
as  a  Shelty's  mane." 

"  It  is  verra  strange,"  she  said  to  me,  after  one  of 
her  trips  to  the  city,  "  how  the  Scotch  speech  clings 
to  a  body.  Just  as  I  was  gettin'  oot  a  horse-car 
in  '  Sixt '  Aveny,'  the  conductor  says  to  me,  '  Hoo  's 
Glasky  ? '  I  turned  round  upon  him  an'  he  winket 
an'  says,  '  Will  ye  lat  me  down  noo,'  a-mockin'  me. 
Weel,  my  betters  has  been  mocked  before  me,  frae 
Elijah  to  the  Covenanters." 

There  was  an  old  man  about  town  whom  Tibbie 
especially  detested,  as  she  considered  him  lazy.  At 
one  time  an  old  lounge  had  been  taken  to  the  barn 
and  set  down  at  one  end  of  it  by  the  back  door,  which 
was  usually  open,  till  it  could  be  disposed  of. 

On  the  lounge,  in  the  cool  corner,  Tibbie  one  day 
found  poor  Timothy  Hughes  taking  a  nap,  his  empty 


I2O  Inside  our  Gate. 

lunch-pail  by  his  side.  She  shut  the  door  near  him, 
and  locked  it  on  the  outside.  He  awoke  as  she  did 
so,  and  called,  "  Tibbie,  don't  ye  lock  the  door,  I  'm 
in  the  barran ; "  but  she  walked  straight  into  the  house. 
After  an  hour  or  so,  she  went  out  on  the  pretence  of 
getting  kindling,  unlocked  the  door,  and  went  uncon 
cernedly  in.  Timothy  was  all  worn  out  with  pounding 
on  the  door,  and  hoarse  with  calling.  "  Why  did  n't 
ye  let  me  out,  Tibbie?"  said  he;  "I've  nigh  about 
screeched  me  lungs  out." 

"Well,  it  won't  hurt  'em,"  said  Tibbie;  "they'd 
been  having  a  fine  rest.  I  thought  as  ye  were  sleep- 
in'  sae  weel,  it  was  a  sin  to  disturb  ye." 

"  Had  n't  I  the  lawn  to  mow  before  the  master  gets 
back?"  cried  Timothy. 

"Oh,  had  ye?  Weel,  if  I'd  'a'  known  that,  I'd 
have  waked  ye ;  but  I  thought  ye  must  'a'  hired  some 
body  to  mow  for  ye.  Mowin'  was  ne'er  done  by 
sluggards." 

"  I  Ve  took  a  nap  every  day  at  me  mowin'  and 
never  wasted  me  time  before,"  said  Timothy. 

"  Have  ye  ?  Weel,  then,  I  hold  mesel'  quite  respon 
sible  for  it  by  setting  the  lounge  out  here  as  a  tempta 
tion,  so  fly  round  an'  work  lively  an'  mak'  up  for  lost 
time.  Ye  must  be  weel  revived  noo." 

The  next  night  at  dusk,  I  saw  a  friend  of  Tibbie's, 


Inside  our  Gate.  121 

a  stout  young  blacksmith,  helping  Tibbie  to  drag 
the  lounge  back  into  the  store-room. 

"  What  is  that  for,  Tibbie  ?  "  said  I.  "  Is  n't  that 
the  broken  lounge  ?  " 

"  Weel,  in  my  een  it  was  but  a  broken  lounge ;  but 
it  proved  a  temptation  and  the  snare  of  the  fowler  in 
Timothy  Hughes's  een,  so  I  Ve  withdrawn  it  from  him." 

Poor  Timothy  the  next  day  looked  in  vain  for  his 
soft  corner.  He  then  sat  on  a  box  in  the  barn  and 
leaned  his  head  on  the  boards  ;  but  that  was  too  hard 
a  pillow,  and  he  returned  to  the  mowing,  much  to 
Tibbie's  satisfaction. 

One  night  Tibbie  went  into  the  next  town,  and  on 
her  return  told  me  that  she  had  been  much  impressed 
by  what  she  had  heard.  On  one  side  of  the  street 
was  a  large  lager  beer  and  drinking  saloon,  —  a  place 
where  "  billiards  and  gambling  cards  war  played," 
and  where  rough  young  men  from  the  city  gathered 
in  the  evening.  This  place  was  brilliantly  lighted  this 
Summer  evening;  all  she  could  hear  as  she  passed 
was  the  clicking  of  balls.  Suddenly  from  this  saloon  a 
woman's  voice  broke  the  stillness,  rising  in  song.  The 
first  words  Tibbie  lost,  but  the  chorus  rang  out 

clearly,  — 

"  Tears  and  poverty  ebb  and  flow, 
Tears  and  poverty  ebb  and  flow." 


122  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  And,"  said  Tibbie,  "  across  the  street  was  the 
lighted  chapel,  an'  I  heard  the  voices  of  the  children 
practising  for  the  concert,  singing  like  the  angels, 
'  Hallelujah,  hallelujah,  glory  to  God  in  the  highest ! ' 
What  think  ye  o'  that,  Mistress  Burroughs?"  asked 
Tibbie ;  "  I  felt  as  if  I  was  walkin'  a  strait  and 
narrow  way  betwixt  the  two  eternal  states  o'  bein'." 

Once  Tibbie  went  to  Coney  Island  with  her  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

"  I  had  quite  an  encounter,"  she  said,  on  her  return, 
"  wi'  a  fortin-teller.  She  had  builded  hersel'  a  bit 
house  upon  the  shiftin'  sand,  like  the  foolish  man 
in  the  Scripter,  wi'  one  winder  in  the  front  to  relieve 
hersel'  o'  her  sin  an'  folly  through.  Weel,  as  we  passet 
by,  she  hailed  me  an'  asket  me  wad  I  hae  me  fortin 
told.  Sae  thinkin'  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  de 
liver  me  testimony,  I  just  halted  in  the  front  o'  her, 
an'  says  I,  '  What  gied  ye  the  power  to  be  searchin' 
into  the  deep  things  o'  God  ?  Weel  do  I  ken  that  it 
is  naught  but  a  leein'  abomination  that  ye  practise. 
We  are  forbid  in  the  word  o'  God  frae  consortin'  wi' 
fortin-tellers  or  soothsayers  or  conjurers  or  them  that, 
like  the  father  o'  lees,  mak's  and  practizes  them.  Do 
ye  call  to  mind  what  the  Apostle  said  to  Simon,  "  Ye'r 
money  perish  wi'  ye  "  ?  Are  ye  the  witch  o'  Endor  that 


Inside  our  Gate.  123 

ye  wad  produce  Samuel  to  our  admiring  een  ?  Mair 
like,  ye  'd  marshal  oot  the  De'il  an'  his  angels.'  By 
this  time,"  said  Tibbie,  "  there  was  quite  a  collection 
of  folk ;  and  the  daughter  o'  Heth  slappet  down  her 
winder,  an'  Mrs.  Kennedy  she  drawed  me  awa'." 


VII. 

OCOTT  is  one  of  our  family  He  is  a  Scottish 
VJ  American,  born  in  New  York  State,  of  Scottish 
parents.  Handsome,  polite,  faithful  to  his  friends, 
civil  to  strangers,  the  most  sensitive  soul  alive  to 
praise  or  blame  is  Scott,  our  collie-dog.  So  perfect 
are  his  manners,  so  delicate  his  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  that  when  occasionally  he  does  some  doglike 
act,  we  are  quite  shocked.  He  is  perfectly  obedient 
even  to  little  Elinor.  He  has  his  likes  and  dislikes, 
as  do  others,  but  his  loving  heart  will  not  let  him  carry 
out  his  own  wishes  against  the  wishes  of  another. 

The  strangest  thing  is  that  Scott  never  had  any 
training  such  as  dogs  are  supposed  to  need.  The 
friend  who  gave  him  to  us  told  me  that  from  a  baby 
—  I  cannot  say  a  pup  —  he  had  been  different  from 
other  dogs  about  the  place.  When  Scott  was  brought 
from  his  birthplace  and  sent  to  the  stables  in  his  new 
home,  a  fierce  bull-terrier  that  had  brought  all  the  other 
dogs  into  subjection  flew  at  him,  counting  on  easy 
game  in  the  gentle  collie.  But  he  had  mistaken  his 


Inside  our  Gate.  125 

opponent.  As  he  dashed  at  the  new-comer,  show 
ing  his  gleaming  teeth  and  bristling  like  a  little  fiend, 
Scott,  with  a  leap,  went  over  his  head,  seized  him  by 
the  tail,  and  whirled  him  around  till  he  was  glad  to 
slink  away.  Every  day  for  nearly  three  weeks  this 
game  was  played,  the  collie  always  coming  out  best ; 
and  after  that  the  bull-terrier  would  run  when  he  saw 
Scott  coming,  though  he  never  offered  to  give  fight, 
but  was  inclined  to  be  friendly.  And  indeed,  before 
long  they  became  good  comrades  and  play-fellows. 

I  told  the  children  what  Scott's  master  had  said,  — 
that  he  was  obedient  because  he  was  loving,  and  was 
wise  too  in  making  a  friend  from  an  enemy. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Douglas,  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm, 
"  is  n't  he  good,  —  better  than  I  am  ?  Scott  won't 
have  to  change  much  to  get  ready  for  heaven  ! " 

Then  Scott  is  a  good  nurse.  No  one  could  injure 
the  children  if  Scott  were  present.  He  doesn't  like 
to  have  a  stranger  lift  Elinor.  He  gets  up  from  his 
corner  to  say  "oof;"  and  if  that  mild  remark  is  dis 
regarded  he  steps  up  and  gives  a  quick  bark.  He  is 
also  a  watchman.  He  sleeps  in  the  nursery,  but  the 
whole  house  is  open  to  him  ;  and  if  he  hears  an  un 
usual  sound  he  goes  downstairs  and  walks  about  and 
gives  a  few  gruff  barks. 

As  we  go  from  room  to  room  in  the  daytime,  Scott 


126  Inside  our  Gate. 

always  follows.  He  plays  ball  and  bean  bags  with 
Elinor.  He  lies  on  the  sofa  while  she  puts  a  sweep 
ing-cap  on  him,  a  pillow  under  his  head,  and  a  rug 
over  him,  and  unresisting,  he  plays  Red  Riding  Hood's 
Grandmother.  He  is  often  sleeping  in  the  nursery 
corner  with  a  "Tarn  o'  Shanter"  on  his  head,  or  an 
old  bonnet,  or  with  ribbons  for  bracelets  on  his  paws. 
At  the  first  sound  of  little  voices  in  the  morning,  he 
rouses  himself,  and  goes  to  the  children,  lays  his  lovely 
head  by  them,  licks  their  hands,  and  then  goes  back 
to  his  favorite  corner,  and  "  flops  "  down  for  another 
nap.  He  can  play  too ;  he  can  leap  over  piles  of 
chairs  and  towel-racks.  From  where  he  stands  he 
rises  like  a  bird  on  the  wing,  and  fairly  floats  through 
the  air ;  it  is  a  pretty  sight  Douglas  shows  him  off  to 
the  school-children  as  they  go  to  and  from  school,  and 
is  proud  of  his  beautiful  friend,  as  he  flies  over  the 
fence  at  his  command. 

We  have  had  dogs  who  insisted  on  being  fed  at  the 
table,  and  who  would  go  about  and  "  tap  "  our  arms  to 
draw  our  attention.  Never  so  does  Scott.  He  gen 
erally  lies  under  a  sofa  or  a  table ;  but  if  he  is  very 
hungry,  he  goes  and  sits  by  some  one  without  a  sign 
or  sound,  —  he  just  sits  and  looks.  But  Douglas  can 
not  go  on  eating  if  Scott  has  chosen  him  ;  he  cannot 
bear  that  earnest  entreating  gaze.  Truly  it  is  the  gaze 


Inside  our  Gate.  127 

of  the  "  Ancient  Mariner :  "  after  he  has  set  his  eye 
on  one  he  never  takes  it  off  till  his  hunger  is  satisfied. 
Douglas  sometimes  puts  up  his  hand  to  his  face  to 
shut  Scott  from  his  vision ;  but  after  a  moment  Scott 
slips  round  to  the  other  side,  and  still  gazes. 

One  day  Douglas  was  very  much  depressed  with  this 
unwearied  vigilance,  and  he  put  his  handkerchief  be 
fore  his  eyes.  That  was  awkward,  and  in  a  moment 
little  Elinor,  touched  by  her  brother's  low  spirits, 
slipped  out  of  her  chair,  and  came  and  stood  be 
tween  him  and  the  eager  eyes  of  Scott,  holding  her 
large  napkin  up  like  a  screen  between  the  dog  and 
his  little  master  while  Douglas  went  cheerfully  on  with 
his  dinner. 

One  night  the  nurse  was  away,  and  after  the  children 
were  in  bed  I  went  out  for  the  evening,  leaving  Tibbie 
sitting  in  the  upper  hall,  to  read  by  the  light  there  till 
the  little  children  were  asleep.  Then  she  was  to  re 
turn  to  her  work  downstairs,  leaving  her  kitchen  door 
open,  and  Scott  for  nurse  in  the  upper  hall.  At  last 
the  little  folk  were  asleep,  and  Tibbie  started  to  go 
downstairs. 

"  Oof !  "  said  Scott,  starting  up  from  his  nap  ;  "  bow 
wow  wow  ! " 

Fearing  that  he  would  wake  the  children,  she  went 
back  and  patted  him,  and  sat  down  for  a  moment 


128  Inside  our  Gale. 

more.  Then  she  tried  again  to  go  down;  but  he 
barked  again  and  louder  and  louder,  as  she  went  on 
toward  the  kitchen.  She  tried  several  times  in  the 
evening  to  go  down,  but  he  would  not  let  her.  I 
suppose  the  unusual  silence  of  the  house  oppressed 
him ;  or  more  likely  he  thought  I  had  left  her  in 
charge,  and  determined  that  she  should  not  play 
me  false. 

Not  a  harsh  word  will  Scott  allow  between  the 
children.  If  he  is  sleeping  in  a  distant  room,  at  the 
faintest  sound  of  an  unloving  voice  he  is  on  the 
spot.  "  Oof,  oof ! "  says  the  peacemaker.  The 
children  accept  his  reproof.  "  Oof,  oof ! "  says 
Scott.  "  Hear  Scott,  he  says  '  be  loving,' "  says  lit 
tle  Elinor,  and  Douglas  apologizes  to  him,  — 

"  Scott,  I  was  n't  quarrelling  with  her.  I  only 
wanted  that  book  a  minute,  and  she  wouldn't  let 
me  have  it." 

And  then  Scott  lies  down  near  by  with  his  eye  on 
his  little  charges. 

I  can  scarcely  separate  the  children  and  Scott  and 
this  dear  old  house  in  my  thoughts.  I  remember  one 
day  when  Douglas  with  Scott  at  his  heels  came  to  the 
parlor  window,  flattening  his  small  nose  there,  and 
making  a  little  blur  of  breath  on  the  pane  and  stretch 
ing  his  gray  eyes  to  see  if  I  was  in  the  room.  He 


Inside  our  Gate.  129 

had  news  of  exceeding  interest  to  tell  me.  He  had 
just  lost  a  tooth  ;  it  got  caught  in  the  hammock  twine 
when  he  was  swinging,  and  came  out.  He  opened  his 
mouth  to  show  me  a  row  of  white  baby  teeth,  with 
a  little  blank  space,  and  two  "  big  boy's  teeth  "  halfway 
through.  Dear  Douglas  !  he  was  in  the  chrysalis  state 
then,  —  his  long  fair  hair  had  just  been  cut  off,  but 
his  kilts  remained  to  show  that  he  had  been  little. 

Soon  the  kilts  had  to  be  discarded.  He  became 
such  an  expert  climber  that  he  went  through  the 
apple-trees  like  a  squirrel;  but  unlike  a  squirrel  he 
was  obliged  to  "  shin  up  "  the  trunks.  The  kilts  were 
merely  fringes  of  rags.  The  first  knee-breeches  were 
bought  "just  to  climb  in;"  but  that  was  the  end  of 
kilts.  "  Give  me  knee-breeches  or  give  me  death," 
cried  the  soul  of  the  "  big  boy "  within  him. 

I  remember  a  day  too,  when  I  stood  at  the  win 
dow  watching  the  children  in  the  garden. 

"  Mother,"  cried  Douglas,  seeing  me,  "  I  dag  the 
garden  ready  for  your  seeds."  Douglas  is  very  criti 
cal  in  the  use  of  English,  —  no  irregular  verbs  for 
Douglas  ! 

Little  Elinor  was  working  away  with  a  toy  hoe  with 
great  energy.  What  manner  of  seed  she  was  plan 
ning  for  I  know  not,  unless  it  was  a  cocoa-nut  or  a 
whole  watermelon,  for  the  hole  was  a  foot  deep  at 
9 


130  Inside  our  Gate. 

V* 

least  Then,  tired,  she  sat  on  a  box  to  rest,  order 
ing  her  friend  Scott,  who  had  been  playing  over 
seer,  to  finish  her  work.  He  at  once  obeyed  her, 
digging  with  his  fore-legs,  and  kicking  showers  of 
dirt  out  between  his  hind-legs.  He  worked  with  en 
thusiasm,  his  imagination  fired  by  little  Elinor's  occa 
sional,  "  Sic  'em,  Scott." 

The  little  picture  frofrj  the  study  window  I  shall 
never  forget,  —  the  grass  in  the  foreground,  and  the 
berry-bushes  in  the  background,  and  the  sky  over  all, 
and  the  little  figures  which  make  its  beauty ;  all  are 
mine.  • 

One  day  I  watched  the  children  play  store  with 
green  apples  under  a  tree,  Douglas  in  a  gray  flannel 
suit,  a  red  necktie,  and  a  yellow-and-black  toboggan 
cap.  Nothing  short  of  ninety  degrees  in  the  shade 
could  displace  that  beloved  cap.  The  tassel  on  the 
end  stuck  out ;  one  was  reminded  of  Mr.  Pickwick's 
night-cap. 

Elinor  shopped  in  a  blue  gingham  apron  which 
came  to  her  ankles.  She  looked  like  the  Maid  in  the 
Moon,  with  her  round  face,  —  her  dear  face  full  of 
kissing  places. 

She  drew  one  doll  in  a  baby  carriage,  and  held  a 
drooping  rag  infant  over  her  shoulder.  In  one  hand 
she  carried  a  basket.  She  wore  an  anxious  expression, 


Inside  our  Gate.  131 

weighed  down,  poor  lady,  with  a  housekeeper's  cares 
and  a  mother's  duties. 

Then  they  journeyed  to  the  city  in  a  wheelbarrow, 
and  then  marched  to  war  with  a  flag  and  trumpet. 
As  it  is  the  drama  of  life  which  they  are  playing  day 
by  day,  each  scene  must  needs  be  soon  over,  for  at 
the  shortest  it  is  a  drama  with  many  scenes.  Scott 
follows  for  a  private,  —  Scott,  wonderful  creation, 
comrade,  careful  nursery-maid,  sympathizing  friend, 
wise  policeman ;  all  at  the  tender  age  of  two  and 
a  half. 

Away  race  this  trio  still,  day  by  day  over  lawn  and 
path,  and  at  night  sleep  in  one  room,  —  Scott  at  the 
head  of  his  little  master's  bed.  Dear  Douglas,  dear 
Elinor  !  but,  ah,  me  !  I  must  think  too  of  the  other 
little  child,  whose  dear  face  I  seem  always  to  see  be 
tween  them,  —  the  little  brother  of  whom  they  whisper 
in  their  prayers,  and  whose  presence  abides  with  me 
through  sad  days  and  through  merry  days — and  always 
will. 

One  day  several  little  girls  on  their  way  home  from 
school  stopped  to  admire  Douglas's  new  wagon.  He 
wished  to  show  off  before  the  ladies,  and  galloped  up 
and  down  the  path  at  a  terrible  rate,  Scott  barking  a 
remonstrance  at  his  heels,  till  at  last  he  tripped  and 
fell,  and  the  wagon  ran  over  him.  His  poor  little 


132  Inside  our  Gate. 

hands  were  scratched  with  gravel,  and  he  howled  with 
pain.  The  little  girls  took  to  their  heels  and  fled,  and 
the  young  gentleman  was  borne  into  the  house  in  the 
arms  of  a  maid. 

Little  Elinor  flew  to  him  with  outstretched  hands. 
"  Here  's  love  ! "  she  cried,  and  hugged  him  as  he 
struggled.  Poor  Douglas  always  resented  being  hurt, 
and  felt  as  if  the  earth  and  the  inhabitants  thereof  had 
conspired  to  injure  him. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  he  wept  as  he  looked  at  the  poor 
scraped  little  palms,  "  help  me  into  bed." 

"  I  '11  undress  you,"  said  Elinor,  proceeding  to  put 
away  his  clothes  as  I  took  them  off. 

After  he  was  bound  up  and  comforted,  she  took  her 
little  rocking-chair  to  his  bed  and  began  to  read  from  a 
copy  of  Robert  Browning  upside  down.  (Dear  Elinor  ! 
sometimes  I  think  when  really  reading  Browning  that 
the  book  must  be  upside  down.)  She  composed  as 
she  read, — 

"  A  child  who  lay  in  slumbers  deep, 
Her  soldier  toys  stood  close  by  her  ; 
And  very  close  they  stood  to  her,  — 
Her  little  crib  a-dotting  round, 
To  guard  it  as  the  angels  do." 

"  Pho  !  "  said  Douglas,  fretfully,  "that 's  poetry." 
"  Well,"  said  the  cheerful  little  nurse,  "  never  mind 


Inside  our  Gate.  133 

if  it  is  j  it 's  going  to  end  in  the  story  of  a  big,  big 
man  who  ate  folks,  and  then  got  eaten  up  himself. 
Do  you  ache  now,  Douglas,  you  poor  little  boy?" 

"  Yes,  awfully,"  said  Douglas.  "  I  tell  you  I  was 
frightened  when  I  fell  under  that  wagon." 

"  I  guess  you  frightened  somebody  else,"  said  Mary 
Shannon ;  "  for  the  butcher's  boy  drew  his  horse  right 
up  and  stopped  till  I  'd  carried  you  in." 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  have  got  out  and  comforted 
Douglas  ;  he  's  a  mean,  mean  boy,"  said  little  Elinor ; 
"  I  sha'n't  look  at  his  wagon  the  next  time  he  goes 
by.  I  shall  say,  '  Sic  'em,  Scott ; '  "  and  being  thus 
adjured,  Scott  said  "  oof." 

Did  you  ever  think  that  dogs  are  types  of  different 
classes  of  men?  It  is  not  so  with  horses.  Horses 
are  gentle  or  wilful,  strong  or  weak,  dilapidated  and  for 
lorn,  or  fine  and  spirited  animals.  A  horse  is  never 
low;  dogs  sometimes  are,  for  dogs  are  more  human 
than  horses.  You  remember  Bill  Sykes's  dog.  I  've 
seen  plenty  like  him,  —  dogs  that  look  like  the  loung 
ers  about  groggeries,  poker-players,  prize-fighters,  as  if 
they  swore,  and  always  barked  in  slang ;  low-lived  dogs, 
snub-nosed,  thick-necked,  bow-legged.  Then  there 
are  dogs  like  common  dull  ordinary  folk,  and  little 
sharp  homeless  curs  that  have  to  look  out  for  them 
selves,  and  count  with  bootblacks  and  newsboys. 


134  Inside  our  Gate. 

Scott  is  a  thorough  gentleman,  a  friend,  a  com 
panion,  entirely  one  of  us,  human.  He,  like  Mary 
Ellen,  does  not  speak  English,  merely  as  a  matter  of 
choice.  He  prefers  to  speak  through  an  interpreter, — 
one  or  another  of  the  family.  He  gave,  through  one  of 
his  interpreters,  a  receipt  the  other  day  for  a  collie :  un 
measured  love  and  faithfulness,  and  a  merry  heart,  with 
a  fur  cover  soft  as  silk ;  and  what  is  this  but  a  fur  angel? 

We  had  never  owned  a  collie  before  Scott  came. 
Newfoundland  dogs  and  tan  terriers  and  setters  had 
been  our  canine  companions.  With  all  our  petting, 
we  could  never  get  at  the  heart  of  a  Newfoundland 
dog.  We  brought  up  three  from  puppies ;  but  after 
they  had  stayed  with  us  and  chewed  up  our  rubbers 
and  regularly  torn  the  morning  paper,  and  devoured 
our  substance  with  their  enormous  appetites,  they  — 
the  three,  one  at  a  time  —  went  deliberately  away  and 
settled  with  other  families.  One,  black  Ned,  chose 
an  old  German  who  worked  on  the  railroad ;  and 
though  the  old  man  honestly  brought  him  back,  he 
would  not  stay,  and  so  after  having  paid  for  his 
return  three  times,  we  formally  presented  him  to  the 
old  man,  and  one  day  Allan  saw  the  two  sitting  lov 
ingly  side  by  side  by  the  track  at  noon  eating  out  of 
one  dinner-pail,  turn  about,  and  old  Ned  quoted 
doubtless,  as  Allan  passed,  — 


Inside  our  Gate.  135 

"  If  he  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  he  be  ?  " 

I  could  n't  love  a  terrier.  I  like  a  dog  with  soft 
fur,  not  a  little  shivering  creature  in  tights.  Then  as 
for  setters,  they  must  run ;  running  is  a  setter's  life. 
Our  old  Don  would  follow  on  a  drive  of  fifteen  miles 
each  way,  doubling  the  distance  with  his  dashes  and 
raids,  and  would  then  want  to  wrestle  with  a  neigh 
bor's  dog  on  his  return,  and  be  ready  and  alert  for  a 
long  walk  in  the  evening. 

But  Scott,  dear  Scott  (he  has  a  secret  he  will 
not  divulge,  —  whether  he  is  called  a  Scot,  or  is 
named  for  Sir  Walter ;  we  choose  to  spell  it  Scott),  — 
Scott,  true  to  his  ancestry,  is  a  watcher,  one  who  stays 
by  to  look  after  things.  He  has  children  and  a  house 
to  guard,  instead  of  sheep  upon  the  heathery  hills,  and 
here  he  stays,  with  only  runs  and  frolics  with  his  chil 
dren  in  the  garden ;  and  though  he  sleep,  't  is  always 
with  an  anxious  heart  and  listening  ear. 

Sometimes  when  the  children  are  going  to  bed,  I 
tell  a  story  for  Scott,  who  sits  by  with  pricked-up 
ears  and  fixed  attention,  as  he  hears  his  name  often 
introduced. 

"  '  I  often  remember,'  says  Scott  "  (say  I),  "  '  seeing 
my  dear  collie-mother  as  she  sat  by  the  glowing  fire  at 
twilight,  telling  us  fine  tales  of  the  hills  of  Scotland 


136  Inside  our  Gate. 

where  she  and  my  father  watched  sheep.  When  a 
deep  snow  fell  and  the  little  lambs  got  covered  in  it, 
we  used  to  run  around  and  scent  them ;  and  then  we 
would  dig  a  little  hole  at  the  spot  where  we  traced 
one,  and  run  over  and  dig  another  hole,  the  shepherd 
following  us  and  digging  down  and  getting  the  lam- 
mies  out,  while  we  found  out  the  places  for  him 
to  dig."' 

"  That  was  very  kind  in  your  mother,  Scotty  dear," 
says  Elinor,  stopping  half  undressed  to  hug  her  friend  ; 
"if  I  got  under  the  snow,  would  you  dig  me  out?" 
Scott  licks  the  little  hand  that  pats  him.  "  He  says 
he  would,"  says  Elinor. 

If  there  is  occasion  to  bark,  Scott  can  bark.  Some 
times  a  passing  "  glass-put-in  man  "  shakes  his  fist  at 
him,  as  he  sits  on  the  piazza,  and  he  is  obliged  to  re 
sent  the  insult.  Sometimes  a  dog  runs  by,  and  Scott 
feels  sure  that  he  is  the  wrong  dog,  and  he  tells  him 
so.  It  is  seldom,  in  fact,  that  the  right  clog  does  go 
by.  It  seems  to  him  like  having  a  dog  forced  on  his 
acquaintance  to  see  one  whom  he  has  never  seen 
before  go  boldly  by  in  his  street,  or  on  his  sidewalk. 

One  day  as  I  was  sitting  reading  in  the  parlor,  my 
ear  was  caught  by  an  odd  sound,  and  looking  toward 
the  window  I  saw  there  a  little  dog,  —  a  clumsy  tan 
terrier  with  his  ears  cropped  off  entirely.  He  was 


Inside  our  Gate.  137 

tapping  on   the   pane  with  his   paw;    he  wanted  to 
come  in. 

Tibbie  took  a  stick  and  drove  him  away.  She  said 
he  looked  as  if  his  name  was  "  Mickey."  In  about  an 
hour  he  was  again  begging  to  come  in.  The  barn  was 
open.  The  dog  could  have  gone  there  for  warmth  in 
the  hay ;  but  no,  he  tapped  at  the  parlor  window  and 
whined.  When  Scott  went  into  the  yard,  he  took  no 
notice  of  the  little  dog,  that  jumped  on  him  and 
seemed  overjoyed  to  see  him ;  but  he  bore  his  atten 
tions  with  patience.  When  the  door  opened  to  let 
Scott  in,  the  little  dog  wailed  aloud  at  being  left 
outside.  At  last  we  captured  him  and  locked  him  in 
the  barn. 

The  next  morning  he  was  tapping  on  the  panes. 
"  He  says,  '  Scott 's  inside  ;  why  can't  I  come  in  ?  ' ' 
interpreted  little  Elinor. 

Scott  was  always  incensed  at  dogs  who  trespassed 
on  our  grounds,  —  that  he  would  not  allow ;  but  he 
seemed  to  accept  this  little  chap.  As  he  lay  sunning 
himself  on  the  piazza,  the  little  dog  sat  at  the  gate 
and  notified  him  of  passers-by  by  barking  when  they 
reached  the  gate.  Scott  would  give  a  lazy  "  oof"  from 
the  piazza.  The  pedlers  he  let  go  with  this  mild  re 
buke,  and  the  rag-picker  with  his  hook  and  basket  got 
no  worse.  "  Bark  on,  small  dog,"  he  seemed  to  say; 


138  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  earn  your  board  by  vigilance,  and  save  my  time." 
It  was  evident  that  Scott  had  determined  to  keep  a 
dog  himself.  He  had  always  been  on  the  alert  for  a 
noise ;  but  now  in  the  parlor  he  lay  and  snored  in 
ease  of  mind,  for  he  kept  a  dog  outside  that  would 
bark  "  to  arms "  if  necessary.  Days  passed  away, 
but  the  little  dog  stayed  on.  He  was  now  called 
Scott's  dog. 

One  morning  as  the  children  were  playing  on  the 
sidewalk  with  Scott  and  his  dog,  they  saw  a  little  old 
Irishman  jogging  along  on  a  dirt-cart.  As  he  neared 
them,  he  drew  up  his  horse  and  exclaimed  joyfully,  — 

"  Why,  Nigger,  is  that  you,  me  boy?  I  thought 
I  'd  lost  ye." 

"Is  that  little  dog  yours?"  cried  Douglas.  "He 
just  came  here  and  would  live  at  our  house.  We  Ve 
fed  him  for  most  a  week." 

"  Thank  ye,"  said  the  little  old  man,  getting  down 
from  his  seat  to  take  the  dog,  who  was  making  frantic 
efforts  to  get  into  the  cart ;  "  thank  the  little  gentle 
man,  Nigger;  bow  yer  head,  sir."  And  being  further 
admonished  by  a  tap  on  his  head,  the  little  dog  with 
out  ears  rose  on  his  thin  hind-legs,  dropped  his  paws, 
and  nodded  his  thanks  and  a  good-by  all  in  one. 
And  then,  being  lifted  into  the  dirt-cart,  he  rode  off, 
sitting  on  the  seat  beside  the  old  man,  whose  arm 


Inside  our  Gate.  139 

was  around  him.  Scott  barked  furiously,  and  dashed 
after  the  man  who  was  stealing  his  dog,  and  after 
the  traitor  who  was  deserting  him.  Then  he  came 
back,  and  he  and  the  children  stood  and  gazed  down 
the  road  till  the  new  friend  was  lost  to  sight  round  a 
corner. 

I  think  that  children  are  the  most  entertaining  of 
companions ;  the  most  interesting,  the  most  marvel 
lous  of  comrades.  I  relate,  I  explain,  —  and,  behold  ! 
I  discover  some  day  that  the  things  I  told  had  quite 
another  meaning  to  them  from  the  one  I  intended. 
Dear  little  well-balanced,  blank  minds  !  —  how  funny 
they  are,  in  their  lack  of  experience  of  even  the  com 
monest  things  ! 

I  suppose  God  looks  on  our  bewildered,  untrained, 
finite  minds  as  we  look  on  the  children's,  and  He  tries 
to  explain  to  us  out  of  the  wonders  of  His  omniscience, 
by  the  Bible  and  by  His  works,  but  we  cannot  grasp 
His  thought.  The  strangest  thing  we  do,  the  most 
ignorant  and  foolish,  is  to  limit  His  love,  when  by 
word  and  work  He  tells  us  that  it  is  limitless.  The 
time  will  come,  in  the  new  life,  when  we  shall  smile 
and  wonder  at  the  childish  narrow  views  we  took  in 
this  world,  even  as  little  Elinor  does  now  at  the  silly 
things  she  did  when  she  was  "  little."  How  wonder- 


140  Inside  our  Gate. 

ful  it  all  will  be  when  we  know  even  as  we  are  known  ! 
To  God's  knowledge  we  must  seem  as  perverse  as  our 
baby  seemed  to  me  when  I  showed  her  the  letters  on 
her  blocks. 

"  Baby,"  said  I,  in  perfect  assurance  of  my  knowl 
edge,  "that  is  S." 

"It  is  not,"  she  asserted. 

"And  this  is  T." 

"  It  is  not." 

Still,  though  I  said,  "  Mamma  knows  best,"  and 
went  on  to  different  letters,  "  It  is  not,"  was  her 
only  answer. 

One  day  I  was  looking  at  an  atlas,  and  Elinor 
pressed  close  to  me  to  look  too. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

I  pointed  out  a  crinkled  black  line  on  the  page. 
"That  is  the  Mississippi  River;  I  was  looking  for  a 
town  on  the  river,"  I  answered. 

Elinor  looked  at  me  with  surprised  eyes.  "  That  is 
not  a  river,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  a  pencil-mark.  A  river 
is  made  of  water ;  Douglas  said  so  ! " 

"  Yes,  a  river  is  water ;  but  this  is  a  sort  of  picture 
of  a  river." 

"  It  is  not,"  said  Elinor ;  "  there 's  a  picture  of  a 
river  in  the  parlor,  with  pictures  of  the  boats  on  it." 

I  gave  it  up  and  changed  the  subject. 


Inside  our  Gate.  141 

One  night,  after  Elinor  had  said  "  Amen "  to  her 
prayer,  she  stopped  and  said,  "  Nobody  can  see 
'Amen.'" 

"When  you  read,"  I  said,  "you  can  see  'Amen' 
in  a  book." 

"  Yes,"  she  insisted,  "  but  you  can't  ever,  anywhere, 
see  an  '  Amen.' " 

"  Oh,  you  mean  that  it  is  like  '  good-morning '  or 
'  good-night,'  or  '  how-do-you-do  '  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  can  see  you  and  see  Douglas 
and  see  Scott  and  the  pin-cushion,  but  I  can't  see 
'  Amen.' " 

She  had  discovered  nouns. 

And  Douglas  added,  "  It  is  n't  good  English  either, 
to  say  '  Amen ' ;  it  ought  to  be  A  man" 

Alas,  had  I  not  explained  the  very  night  before  that 
"Amen"  meant,  "so  be  it,"  or  "let  it  be  so,"  or  "let 
me  have  an  answer  to  what  I  have  asked "  ? 

I  came  across  a  bundle  of  old  letters  lately  which  I 
had  written  to  my  brother  Dick.  They  were  family 
letters,  full  of  the  children's  every-day  doings  and  say 
ings.  I  was  much  struck  with  the  confused  state  of 
the  little  minds,  with  their  rag-bag  knowledge,  real  and 
fancied  treasures,  —  a  strange  medley  waiting  to  be  ar 
ranged  and  classified,  distributed,  I  hope,  as  Mr.  Lo 
well's  delightful  knowledge  seems  to  be,  in  pigeon- 


142  Inside  our  Gate. 

holes  and  drawers  of  his  mind,  ready  for  instant 
use. 

One  day  when  I  was  going  to  Philadelphia  with 
Douglas,  a  long  lank  boy  in  outgrown  clothes  and 
with  his  hair  hanging  in  elf-locks  came  through  the 
cars  selling  candy.  "  Hullo  ! "  said  Douglas  to  the 
boy,  "  I  know  you.  You  are  Barnaby  Rudge.  How 's 
your  crow  ? "  The  boy  stared  at  him  and  passed 
on.  I  asked  Douglas  what  he  meant,  and  I  dis 
covered  that  the  poor  little  soul  had  thought  that 
all  the  characters  with  which  he  was  familiar  in  our 
illustrated  Dickens  were  photographed  from  life  and 
were  likely  to  be  encountered  at  any  time. 

When  little  Elinor  was  given  a  doll's  trunk  she 
gazed  at  it  with  joy,  then  with  a  sudden  cloud  upon 
her  face  she  ran  to  me  and  said,  "  Mamma,  do 
you  think  that  rough  fellow  who  stole  little  David 
Copperfield's  trunk  in  the  picture,  and  cried  '  Pollis  ! 
pollis  ! '  will  steal  my  little  trunk  too  ?  "  and,  behold  ! 
little  Elinor  had  shared  her  brother's  belief. 

Douglas  had  heard  with  much  interest  of  the 
Dinornis  and  Epiornis.  But  he  could  hardly  keep 
back  the  tears  of  disappointment  when  he  beheld  the 
skeletons  in  the  Natural  History  Rooms.  "  Surely, 
you  call  a  bird  with  such  stout  legs  —  a  bird  that 
could  carry  a  man  —  a  large  bird  ? "  said  I. 


Inside  our  Gate.  143 

"  Mother,"  said  the  small  boy  of  great  expectations, 
"  I  thought  from  what  you  read  that  they  were  as  high 
as  the  barn." 

But  the  whale's  teeth  went  beyond  anything  he  had 
ever  dreamed  of  in  the  way  of  teeth.  He  wished 
very  much  to  know  the  market  price  of  such  teeth. 
I  could  n't  tell  him. 

"But,"  he  persisted,  "are  we  rich  enough  to  buy  a 
few  whale's  teeth?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  are,"  I  said. 

I  overheard  him  boast  to  a  little  boy  over  the  fence 
a  few  days  afterward  of  our  affluence  in  being  able  to 
indulge  in  whale's  teeth. 

At  the  circus  the  gigantic  Jumbo  did  not  sur 
prise  him.  "^VVhen  are  the  large  elephants  coming 
in?"  asked  he.  It  was  the  same  with  the  ten-horse 
Roman  chariot ;  oh,  no,  he  had  thought,  he  said,  that 
it  was  to  be  like  the  big  picture  in  our  parlor,  where 
the  chariot  dashed  through  the  sky.  Guide's  Aurora  ! 
Poor  Mr.  Barnum  did  n't  dream  of  such  a  rival ! 

The  mandrill  monkey  did  impress  him.  He  said 
he  thought  Mr.  Darwin  had  n't  a  better  monkey  in  his 
collection  than  that.  And  behold,  he  had  looked  on 
the  illustrations  in  one  of  Darwin's  books  as  on  a  circus 
advertisement,  and  on  Mr.  Darwin  as  a  collector  of 
monkeys. 


144  Inside  our  Gate. 

But  the  one  thing  at  the  circus  that  perfectly  suited 
him  was  the  clown.  This  new  sort  of  person  burst 
upon  him  in  all  his  gay  striped  glory,  a  vision  of  un 
told  rapture.  Oh,  the  clown,  the  clown  !  the  leaps  he 
could  take,  the  faces  he  could  make  !  He  meant  to 
be  a  clown  as  soon  as  he  grew  up ;  yes,  the  day  he 
was  twenty-one.  He  cut  paper  clowns,  he  painted 
clowns,  he  bought  a  clown  mask. 

At  times  in  Douglas's  short  life  he  made  for  him 
self  various  standards  of  wisdom.  His  own  knowledge 
was  the  standard,  as  with  older  and  wiser  folk.  At  this 
time  an  infallible  sign  to  him  of  the  utter  and  hopeless 
ignorance  of  any  one  he  met,  was  the  use  of  "  ain't." 

The  next  Spring  his  uncle  took  him  for  a  birthday 
treat  to  the  circus. 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  said  we,  "  now  we  '11  hear  of  nothing 
for  weeks  but  the  clown,  the  clown,  and  of  all  the 
brilliant  remarks  he  may  make." 

But  not  so.  Douglas  rushed  into  the  house  at  night, 
horror  and  disappointment  on  his  face. 

"  Mother,"  he  cried,  "  what  do  you  suppose  the 
clown  said?  " 

I  had  to  confess  that  imagination  failed  me. 

"  Why,  mother,"  exclaimed  the  disappointed  little 
boy,  " the  clown,  the  down  said  ain't" 

His  idol  was  shattered  ! 


Inside  our  Gate.  145 

When  I  read  "  Tom  Brown's  School-days  "  to  him  I 
did  n't  dare  to  read  the  "  ain'ts  "  which  the  boys  used 
constantly  in  their  talk,  fearing  that  Rugby  would  sink 
so  low  in  his  estimation  as  a  temple  of  learning  that  it 
never  could  be  raised  again. 

It  takes  a  long  time  to  learn  not  to  express  decided 
opinions  on  matters  one  knows  nothing  about.  I  had 
a  very  decided  opinion  that  no  child  should  be  taught 
to  read  till  he  was  seven  or  eight  years  old,  and  that 
then  he  could  learn  readily  in  a  few  months.  I  felt 
angry  at  the  very  idea  of  beating  such  a  thing  as  read 
ing  and  spelling  into  baby  brains;  but  I've  taught  a 
child  now,  and  changed  my  mind. 

My  boy  was  more  than  seven  years  old  when  I  un 
dertook  to  introduce  him  to  the  "word-system."  I 
knew  that  was  the  best  system.  In  order  to  give  the 
system  a  fair  trial,  he  really  ought  not  to  have  known 
his  letters,  but  somehow  he  had  picked  them  up.  I 
made  the  statement  to  begin  with,  that  the  printed 
word  "  boy "  (pointing  to  it)  was  a  word  that  meant 
"boy." 

"  You  know,  Douglas,"  said  I,  "  that  people  make 
sounds  in  telling  about  things.  You  call  those  sounds 
'talking.'  Those  sounds  are  words.  When  I  say, 
'Look  out  of  the  window  and  see  that  boy  — '" 

10 


146  Inside  our  Gate. 

Douglas  looked  out  of  the  window  eagerly.  "There 
is  n't  any  boy,"  he  said. 

"  No ;  but  you  see  when  I  said  those  words  you 
knew  what  I  meant.  You  looked  out  to  see  a  boy. 
You  did  n't  think  I  meant  the  big  locust-tree  when  I 
said  '  boy.'  So  this  word  in  the  book  is  a  sign  for  the 
word  '  boy '  [I  remembered  by  this  time  that  it  was  a 
sign  of  a  word].  When  I  look  on  this  book,  that  word 
there  [pointing]  means  '  boy '  to  my  eyes,  just  as  the 
sound  when  I  speak  it  means  '  boy  '  to  your  ears.  Do 
you  understand  what  I  mean?" 

"  No,"  said  Douglas ;  "  because  those  letters  you 
are  pointing  to  are  n't  a  word  ;  they  're  only  just  letters 
b  and  o  and  y" 

"  But  words  are  made  of  letters,  my  dear,"  said  I. 

"  Mamma,  b-o-y,  does  n't   sound  like  '  boy.'  " 

"  But  listen  to  the  sound  of  the  letters  in  '  boy,' " 
said  I,  trying  to  give  the  letters  the  sounds  they  really 
have  in  the  word. 

"  That 's  right,  that  sounds  it,"  said  Douglas  ;  "  but 
If  and  o  and  y  does  n't  sound  it,  mamma." 

There  was  nothing  before  me  but  to  begin  at  the 
foundation  of  the  English  language.  "  This  thing  C 
is  a  sign,  and  it  has  a  name,  '  C,'  and  it  has  a  sound  — 
no,  alas  !  it  has  two  sounds.  It  has  one  sound  like  k, 
when  you  say  *  cat ; '  and  it  has  another  sound,  —  a 


Inside  our  Gate.  147 

hissing  sound  made  between  your  teeth,  as  when  you 
say  'cent.'  " 

G  was  a  desperate  letter ;  it  was  soft  when  Douglas 
was  looking  for  a  hard  G,  and  it  was  hard  and  solid 
when  he  was  looking  for  a  soft  G.  And  why  was  W 
not  called  "double  F"  when  it  really  was  two  Fs,  and 
what  was  the  use  of  having  an  6"  at  all  when  soft  C 
would  do  as  well,  asked  the  poor  little  boy.  Then 
the  ths,  and  the  s/is,  and  whs,  and  oughs  and  K  silent 
before  N!  Dear,  dear  !  I  found  I  was  not  only  in 
troducing  my  son  but  myself  also,  to  the  English 
language. 

A  seemed  a  perfect  fiend  incarnate.  In  the  Primer 
this  little  column  set  forth  its  claims  to  the  title  :  — 

Ape, 

Apple, 

Art. 

At  last  Douglas  began  to  read.  "  See  the  cat.  Hear 
the  dog.  See  the  white  hen.  See  the  bag  of  corn." 
He  stumbled  along  through  a  few  pages,  expecting 
doubtless  day  by  day  to  come  upon  some  fine  tale ; 
but  when  we  turned  a  page  and  began,  — "  I  see  a 
man,  a  hoe  and  a  rake,  and  a  dog  and  a  shed.  Ann 
has  a  bird,  and  Dan  has  a  gun,"  —  Douglas  looked  at 
me  with  tears  gathering  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"Mamma,"    said  he,  reproachfully,   "I  don't  care 


148  Inside  our  Gate. 

to  read  such  baby  stuff,  like  little  fellows  that  wear 
kilts  and  have  n't  had  a  horse-clipper  on  their  heads, 
or  owned  a  foot-ball,  or  been  to  a  circus  three 
times." 

Sure  enough,  poor  fellow,  why  should  he  want  to 
read  it  ?  Why  had  I,  stupid  mother,  forced  such  pap 
on  a  boy  of  seven  and  a  half  years,  who  had  been  fed 
freely  on  the  Bible,  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  Dickens's 
and  Hawthorne's  stories,  Andersen's  fairy  stories  and 
"  Robinson  Crusoe,"  —  not  to  mention  English  and 
Scotch  ballads  by  the  dozen?  I  sighed  for  very 
gratitude  to  my  mother.  I  never  could  remember 
learning  to  read. 

After  that,  I  let  him  read  the  tos  and  its  and  ofs, 
and  just  told  him  outright  the  hard  words  (did  n't 
some  great  English  teacher  teach  Latin  after  that 
fashion  ?).  Poor  soul !  he  always  called  was  "  saw," 
and  saw  "  was,"  —  which  somewhat  startled  me  ;  I 
thought  he  might  be  going  to  read  backward  for  a 
last  variety. 

I  sought  then  for  a  little  American  History  for  a 
reading-book  and  found  one  in  words  of  one  sylla 
ble.  But  what  words  !  They  cramped  the  meaning 
and  forced  poor  English  upon  us,  —  awkward,  ill-turned 
sentences.  Such  books  ought  to  be  written  in  easy 
words  which  children  are  used  to,  the  syllables  sepa- 


Inside  our  Gate.  149 

rated  and  dealt  out,  one  syllable  at  a  time,  to  small 
brains. 

But  the  little  History  interested  the  child.  Even 
Elinor  stopped  in  her  play  to  hear  about  "  Christopher 
Columbia,"  —  as  she  called  him, — and  Bunker  Hill. 
The  events  followed  each  other  in  such  rapid  succes 
sion  in  the  little  book  that  she  probably  thought  that 
Christopher  Columbus  fought  and  died  on  Bunker 
Hill. 

I  was  reading  parts  of  "  Marmion "  to  Douglas. 
He  was  delighted  with  it.  When  the  original  Douglas, 
learning  of  the  forgery  of  a  friend's  name  by  Marmion, 
cries  out  in  gratitude  to  Heaven  that  his  sons  can 
neither  read  nor  write,  my  little  Douglas  shouted, 
"  Oh,  mamma  !  you  see  everybody  does  n't  care  about 
the  children  learning;  I  wish  you  didn't" 

Douglas  took  kindly  to  geography.  I  introduced 
it  to  him  in  this  wise.  I  bought  a  thirty-cent  paper- 
covered  atlas,  and  slipping  out  the  leaves,  I  let  him 
repaint  the  faintly-tinted  maps  and  retrace  the  rivers 
and  mountains ;  and  by  this  agreeable  method  he 
learned  a  good  deal  about  geography.  He  would 
call  Siberia  "  Exile,"  and  Wales  "  Quails,"  and  Turkey 
—  oh,  he  made  very  merry  over  Turkey,  as  if  it  had 
been  named  Rooster.  Afterward  I  found  some  out 
line  maps,  over  which  he  had  to  exercise  his  brain  a 


150  Inside  our  Gate. 

little  in  placing  the  rivers  and  mountains  as  best  he 
could  by  looking  at  a  finished  map.  We  have  now  a 
fine  map  of  England  marked  with  the  counties,  and  of 
this  we  have  made  together  quite  a  careful  study.  I 
have  read  Dickens's  "  Child's  History  of  England " 
three  times  through  to  Douglas ;  and  we  carefully 
looked  up  the  places  mentioned,  on  our  map.  He 
can  name  all  the  counties  and  point  them  out 

Every  story  that  we  read,  many  pictures  that  we 
see,  seem  to  people  island  or  shore  for  him.  He  sees 
the  galleys  of  the  Romans  seeking  tin  and  lead  in 
Cornwall,  and  the  Pilgrims  leaving  their  home  in 
Devon.  I  dare  say  the  Roman  galleys  and  the  "  May 
flower"  run  dangerously  near  to  collision  in  his  little 
brain  ;  for  what  are  dates  to  him  ?  He  "  locates  "  on 
his  map  Victor  Hugo's  island,  views  of  which  he  has 
seen  in  a  magazine,  and  the  island  where  Tennyson 
(who  owns  Excalibur)  has  his  Summer  home ;  he  can 
find  the  town  where  John  Bunyan  lived,  and  he  almost 
expects  to  see  Mr.  Peggotty  sitting  on  Yarmouth,  and 
Shakespeare  on  Stratford-on-Avon.  He  knows  Robin 
Hood's  county  and  that  of  the  wicked  sheriff. 

My  way  of  teaching  geography  is  a  slower  but  a 
surer  way  than  by  memorizing  the  names  of  places. 
Douglas  has  been  through  a  simple  account  of  Paul's 
journeys  with  me,  using  an  ancient  atlas  ;  it  entertained 


Inside  our  Gate.  151 

him  wonderfully.  He  will  not  be  left,  if  I  can  help  it, 
in  the  bewildering  maze  in  which  was  the  little  boy 
who  asked  one  of  my  friends  in  Sunday-school,  "  Where 
are  these  places  you  are  talking  about  ?  They  are  not 
on  the  map  in  our  Geography.  Are  they  in  heaven  ?  " 

I  am  glad  that  Douglas  got  hold  of  a  little  English 
history  before  he  began  on  America.  He  is  delighted 
to  find  reasons  in  his  knowledge  of  English  places  and 
events  for  the  naming  of  the  States  and  many  towns 
by  the  early  settlers.  He  sees  the  reason,  too,  why, 
when  Columbus  was  seeking  India  and  thought  he 
had  found  it,  he  named  the 'American  natives  Indians. 

One  day  I  happened  to  see  a  set  of  gay-colored 
embossed  pictures  in  a  stationer's  window,  the  kings 
and  queens  of  England  at  two  cents  a  sovereign,  — 
as  low  a  price  as  could  well  be  asked  for  kings  and 
queens.  Each  sovereign  was  decked  in  the  proper 
costume,  and  each,  from  William  the  Norman  down 
to  Victoria,  bore  a  little  tag  with  the  appropriate  name, 
the  date  of  birth,  death,  and  coronation,  and  the  prin 
cipal  events  of  the  reign.  We  found  pictures  too 
of  Boadicea  dashing  about  in  her  chariot,  of  Alfred 
harping  in  the  Danes'  camp,  of  Canute  sitting  in  a 
chair  by  the  wild  sea  waves,  of  John  signing  Magna 
Charta,  of  the  great  London  fire,  and  of  the  Spanish 
Armada.  Then  we  bought  a  scrap-book,  and  Douglas 


152  Inside  our  Gate. 

and  I  began  our  illustrated  English  History.  We  have 
found  many  other  interesting  pictures  at  different  sta 
tioners'  or  toyshops,  and  we  have  (always  in  the  em 
bossed  pictures)  many  of  Shakespeare's  characters. 
The  historical  pictures  we  place  on  fly-leaves  by  the 
kings  they  belong  to,  the  others  on  fly-leaves  by 
Elizabeth's  page. 

We  have  also  on  fly-leaves  the  soldiers  of  Eng 
land,  from  the  Normans  down  to  the  present  queen, 
each  in  his  proper  day  and  generation,  and  in  his 
proper  uniform,  if  one  may  speak  of  a  coat  of  mail 
as  a  uniform.  We  have  heads  of  the  great  English 
inventors  surrounded  by  little  pictures  of  their  inven 
tions,  and  Nelson  and  Wellington  after  the  same  fash 
ion  surrounded  by  battles,  medals,  and  monuments, 
and  each  is  placed  in  our  book  according  to  his  date. 
Our  last  purchase  was  a  picture  of  the  Tower  of  Lon 
don,  and  of  the  queen's  various  castles.  What  delight 
ful  pegs  these  kings  and  queens  are  to  hang  history  on  ! 

This  book  is  brought  out  at  each  history  lesson,  — 
this  dear  and  gorgeous  book.  Little  Elinor  looks  at 
it  with  admiration  ;  she  showed  it  to  a  guest  one  day. 
"  This  is  King  John,"  she  said  ;  "  he  was  a  very  weak 
king.  Douglas  says,"  adding  by  way  of  explanation, 
"  he  could  hardly  walk."  "This  one  is  Mary  Bloody," 
she  went  on.  "  These  are  the  little  Princes  in  the 


Inside  our  Gate.  153 

Tower ;  and  that  is  Hubert,  a  kind  man  who  tried  to 
save  them,  but  he  could  n't." 

Elinor  sat  playing  with  her  dolls  one  day,  while 
Douglas  was  learning  his  history  lesson.  It  was  about 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  told  how  the  "wicked  earl  sent  to 
have  her  dragged  off  to  the  stake."  Elinor  burst  into 
the  lesson,  asking,  "Why  did  Joan  of  Arc  let  those 
bad  men  take  her  off?  Why  did  n't  she  go  in  a  closet 
when  they  called  on  her,  and  shut  the  door  tight  and 
stay  there  till  the  men  had  gone,  and  then  send  for  her 
father  to  let  her  out  ?  " 

I  explained  that  she  could  n't  help  being  taken 
away,  that  they  dragged  her ;  but  Elinor  was  still  sure 
that  she  was  a  "  foolish  girl,"  and  that  if,  with  sufficient 
foresight,  she  had  stepped  into  the  closet  so  that  the 
people  would  think  she  had  gone  out  when  the  men 
who  inquired  for  her  rang  for  her  at  the  door,  they 
would  have  been  defeated  in  their  evil  plans.  Well, 
let  it  be  so ;  even  grown  people  can't  always  see  from 
others'  standpoints,  but  only  from  their  own  little 
ant-hills. 

One  day  I  was  reading  to  Douglas  about  the 
Apostle  Paul,  and  of  his  being  beaten  with  stripes. 
"  Well,  Paul  ought  to  be  beated,"  cried  Elinor,  burst 
ing  fiercely  in,  holding  her  beloved  "  Shut  Eye  "  by 
the  leg ;  "  for  I  saw  Paul  get  little  Peter  Smidt's  bat 


154  Inside  our  Gate. 

away  and  pound  little  Yacob  with  it.  I  thumped  on 
the  pane,  but  he  wouldn't  mind." 

There  was  only  one  Paul  for  Elinor.  The  great 
apostle  to  the  Gentiles  was  no  other  to  her  than  little 
Dutch  Paul  in  long  trousers  and  suspenders,  from  the 
tenement-house  in  the  back  field,  fighting  with  his 
little  brother  Yacob.  What  but  years  will  settle  a 
small  boy's  brain,  who  after  reading  "  The  Wonder 
Book  "  calls  Pegasus  Ptggotty,  and  who  with  fresh  vis 
ions  of  Christiana  and  Mercy  before  him  plays  croquet 
with  "  wicket  gates  "  ? 

I  did  n't  dream  of  taking  up  English  grammar  with 
Douglas  until  I  came  across  a  delightful  little  book, 
"  Grammar-Land  ;  "  then  I  tried  it  on  Douglas's  mind 
and  it  fitted  very  well.  Little  Elinor  draws  up  her 
chair  when  the  scarlet  covers  are  opened,  and  asks  for 
a  peep  at  the  rich  funny  Mr.  Noun  and  little  poor,  poor 
Article.  The  parts  of  speech  are  personified  and  called 
up  before  Judge  Grammar  in  court  to  get  settled  for 
good,  and  the  whole  plan  is  so  cleverly  worked  out 
that  a  child  can  never  forget  the  clear  definitions  nor 
help  enjoying  the  fun. 

"  It  is  sad,"  says  Elinor,  "  that  little  Article  has  only 
two  words  for  his  own.  an  'a'  and  a  'the.'" 

"  And  was  n't  Article  funny,"  says  Douglas,  "  to 
say  '  an '  meant  the  same  as  '  a,'  —  it  was  only  '  a ' 


Inside  our  Gate.  155 

with  his  overcoat  on  !  and  it 's  true  that  he  always 
does  run  before  Mr.  Noun,  —  the  dog,  an  apple,  the 
cat." 

Mr.  Adjective,  who  squeezes  in  between  little  Ar 
ticle  and  Mr.  Noun  to  tell  everybody  if  Mr.  Noun's 
words  are  good  or  bad  words,  is  another  friend.  Oh, 
it  all  passes  for  a  merry  tale  !  but  it  is  a  sugared  pill, 
and  the  virtue  is  left  to  work. 

Then  we  attacked  arithmetic.  Douglas  easily  mas 
tered  the  four  tables,  and  went  on  to  the  tables  of 
English  and  American  money,  of  common  weights 
and  measures.  Of  course  we  go  over  and  over  the 
tables,  and  the  little  sly  examples  that  follow  them. 

One  day  I  began,  "  If  one  banana  costs  seven  cents, 
how  much  —  " 

"Seven  cents  for  one  banana,"  cried  Douglas, 
"  who  'd  give  that  ?  At  Mr.  Wist's  you  only  pay 
three  cents  apiece,  and  at  the  market  you  can  get 
two  for  five  cents ;  what  a  skin  ! " 

At  last  we  rise  above  our  surprise  at  the  extortioner's 
price  and  go  on  to  "  English  money." 

"  Twenty-one  shillings  make  a  guinea,"  says  Douglas. 

"  I  Ve  seen  live  guinea-hens  and  guinea-pigs,"  says 
little  Elinor. 

"  Oh,  Elinor,  these  guineas  are  money,"  explains 
Douglas,  in  a  large  way. 


156  Inside  our  Gate. 

.  Elinor  laughs.  "  Oh,  I  did  n't  know  there  was  any 
guinea-pig  money  before." 

One  morning  I  opened  at  the  table  for  measuring 
horses.  "  Oh,  let  me  learn  that !  "  cried  Douglas  ; 
"  and  is  there  a  table  for  measuring  cows ;  and  how 
about  hens? " 

If  there  were  only  a  kindergarten  near  by,  I  know 
of  two  little  pupils  for  it. 

My  children,  in  common  with  all  others,  have  a 
great  fondness  for  pictures ;  and  I  have  taken  pains 
that  they  should  have  plenty  of  good  ones  to  see. 
Douglas  now  can  distinguish  in  the  magazines  quite 
as  quickly  as  I  can  the  drawings  of  the  different 
artists ;  and  he  criticises  them.  "  Mamma,  this  girl 
does  n't  look  at  the  book  in  her  hand  ;  she  is  look 
ing  over  the  edge  of  it ; "  or,  "  I  think  that  child's 
head  is  too  big  for  his  body ;  "  or,  "  Oh,  is  n't  that 
a  nice  picture?  Those  boys  look  just  as  merry  as 
they  ought  to  when  they  are  having  such  fun." 

In  an  old  Bible  History  we  own,  the  pictures  are 
very  poor.  One  incongruity  particularly  excites  Doug 
las's  derision.  Elijah  in  two  pictures  (illustrations  of 
one  transaction)  is  represented  as  a  middle-aged 
smooth-faced  man  and  as  an  aged  man  with  a 
beard,  —  and  all  in  an  hour's  time.  Once  when 
Douglas  was  shut  up  in  the  house  with  a  cold,  he 


Inside  our  Gate.  157 

wanted  to  color  Abbey's  illustrations  of  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer."  I  suppose  some  people  would  have 
thought  it  a  shame  to  let  him  do  it ;  but  I  thought 
it  the  best  lesson  I  could  give  him  in  drawing.  He 
always  uses  my  paints,  and  he  washes  the  colors  very 
daintily  about  the  outlines ;  so  with  delicate  colors  and 
care,  and  after  long  consultations  with  me  as  to  the 
ladies'  gowns,  the  pictures  were  finished. 

Of  course  Elinor,  little  mocking-bird,  wanted  to 
paint  too;  but  she  was  quite  content  to  take  one 
color,  green  or  blue,  and  "  smooch  "  it  all  over  the  pic 
tures.  One  day  she  stood  watching  Douglas  for  a 
long  time  as  he  worked,  and  then  she  came  to  me 
with  a  troubled  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  "  I  want  some  skin-color." 
That  was  the  end  of  paintings  in  one  color  for 
Elinor.  One  day,  when  she  was  over  two  years  old, 
she  made  a  sudden  attempt  to  draw  from  life.  She 
had  our  pretty  nurse  sit  down  motionless ;  she  her 
self  had  often  been  model  for  my  cousin  Pauline, 
and  knew  how  the  thing  was  done.  She  folded 
Mary's  hands,  she  arranged  her  dress  ;  then  seating 
herself  with  a  big  piece  of  paper,  she  began  to  put 
Mary's  eyes  up  in  one  corner  of  the  paper,  her  white 
teeth  (which  Mary  could  not  conceal  for  laughter)  in 
another  corner,  her  nose  somewhere  in  the  middle, 


158  Inside  our  Gate. 

with  no  sign  of  an  outline  of  a  head,  and  no  proper  re 
lation  of  one  feature  to  another.  She  was  thoroughly 
pleased  with  her  performance  too,  and  showed  it  round 
as  Mary's  portrait 

What  a  glimpse  that  gave  me  into  the  vacant  art 
department  of  my  daughter's  mind  ! 

In  her  ordinary  drawing,  Elinor  makes  the  legs 
come  right  out  of  the  neck,  which  is  a  strange  but 
common  error  in  the  drawings  of  little  children.  As 
Elinor  is  a  sensible  child  and  constantly  looking  at 
good  pictures,  I  can't  understand  this.  Still  I  need 
not  wonder  at  my  little  maid  when  I  remember  a 
picture  which  was  once  shown  me,  "an  oil  picture," 
as  the  owner  proudly  explained,  in  which  the  shadows 
fell  in  two  directions,  —  those  from  the  house  to  the 
right,  and  from  a  neighboring  castle  and  tree  to  the 
left.  The  mountains  were  as  smooth  and  round  as 
moulds  of  blancmange ;  and  up  a  pine-tree  in  the 
foreground  a  tiger  was  climbing  for  dear  life,  to  es 
cape  an  elephant  that  was  vigorously  prodding  him 
from  below. 

The  woman  to  whom  this  picture  belonged  lived  in 
a  charming  country,  with  the  "  Adriondacks,"  as  she 
called  them,  in  the  distance.  She  had  looked  on  fair 
skies  and  beautiful  foliage,  on  sun  and  shadow,  all  her 
life.  Why  was  it  that  she  could  n't  see  that  this  picture 


Inside  our  Gate.  159 

was  a  travesty  on  Nature  ?  Perhaps  she  thought  if  the 
people  at  the  antipodes  are  perverse  enough  to  sleep 
while  we  wake,  and  wake  while  we  sleep,  everything 
was  equally  disordered  and  upset  in  their  land ;  that 
tigers  frequented  castle-gardens  in  company  with 
elephants,  and  that  shadows  fell  both  ways  at  once. 
She  was  a  smart,  quick-witted  Yankee  woman,  —  the 
best  of  housekeepers,  and  skilled  at  her  needle ;  her 
eyes  were  quick  enough  to  spy  dust,  and  no  pattern  of 
knit  or  crocheted  edging  was  too  intricate  for  her.  I 
wonder  if  perhaps  such  people  do  not  look  on  pic 
tures  as  they  do  on  poetry,  as  something  quite  out 
of  ordinary  every-day  life,  in  which  one  must  excuse 
freaks  of  nature,  as  we  give  poetic  license  and  let 
poets'  people  talk  in  rhyme,  or  look  upon  "As  You 
Like  It "  not  as  an  exhibition  of  real  life,  but  as  a 
romance. 

When  Pauline  came  to  our  house  to  sketch,  she 
often  used  Douglas  as  a  model.  We  used  to  discuss 
names  for  her  pictures,  and  Douglas  listened  to  these 
discussions  with  great  apparent  interest.  One  picture 
was  painted  in  our  dining-room ;  and  he  was  delighted 
as  he"  saw  the  carved  old-fashioned  mantelpiece  ap 
pearing  on  the  paper,  and  the  various  articles  of 
furniture  coming  out  one  after  another.  Our  pretty 
friend  Dolly  Newell  sat  idly  by  the  spinning-wheel, 


160  Inside  our  Gate. 

with  drooping  eyes,  and  a  young  gallant,  Uncle  Mau 
rice,  in  oldtime  costume,  was  standing  in  embarrassed 
silence  on  the  other  side,  holding  a  large  bouquet  be 
hind  him  which  he  had  brought  to  present  to  Dolly, 

Douglas  was  overjoyed.  "  Oh,  what  are  you  going 
to  name  it,  Cousin  Pauline  and  mamma  ?  What 's  the 
picture's  name?" 

"  I  should  name  it  '  The  First  Step,' "  said  I. 

Pauline  was  pleased,  and  Douglas  seemed  satisfied. 
He  was  about  five  years  old  at  this  time  and  could 
cut  very  good  figures  of  people  and  animals  from 
paper,  with  his  round-pointed  scissors.  That  after 
noon  he  cut  a  large  goat  out  of  brown  paper,  —  an 
old  Billy-goat  with  horns  and  a  long  beard,  —  and 
brought  it  to  me  to  write  "  the  name  "  on  it. 

"  What  shall  we  call  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  Call  it  '  The  Sweet  Light  of  Evening,' "  said  the 
little  artist. 

How  merry  we  made  over  that !  Dear  Douglas, 
what 's  in  a  name  ?  Of  course  he  could  n't  connect 
"  The  First  Step "  with  a  girl  and  a  spinning-wheel 
and  a  young  fellow  in  knickerbockers  carrying  a 
bunch  of  posies.  I  had  named  it,  he  evidently 
thought,  as  a  boy  is  named  Billy  or  Tommy,  to 
suit  his  mother's  taste,  not  to  describe  the  boy's 
characteristics. 


Inside  our  Gate.  161 

How  pleasant  it  is  when  the  children  begin  to  see 
with  their  eyes,  and  hear  with  their  ears,  and  under 
stand  a  little  from  our  standpoints  !  Then  they  begin 
to  be  the  choicest  of  comrades  with  their  fresh  ways  of 
looking  and  hearing. 

I  was  glad  this  Spring  when  my  boy  came  to  me  in 
haste,  crying,  "  Oh,  mother,  come  to  the  hall  window 
to  see  something  beautiful !  "  It  was  beautiful :  the 
sky  was  clear  above  the  wide  brown  fields ;  in  this 
broad  background  a  man  in  a  blue  blouse  and  a  red 
shirt  was  following  a  machine  drawn  by  a  white  horse, 
—  a  machine  which  scattered  a  fertilizer  in  great  wafts 
of  dust  from  either  side  as  it  advanced.  Beyond  him 
a  man  was  sowing  seed,  throwing  it  to  right  and  left ; 
and  we  saw  it  all  through  a  mass  of  white  cherry- 
blossoms.  As  we  stood  looking  at  the  picture,  Susan 
Harris  came  up  the  stairs  with  a  piece  of  ticking  over- 
her  arms,  on  which  she  had  been  sewing.  She  stopped 
as  she  saw  us  looking  from  the  window,  and  said,  "  It 's 
turned  out  a  good  day,  hain't  it?  I  needn't  a-brought 
my  umberella  with  me."  Then  she  took  another  look ; 
"Well,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  "there's  William 
Evans  with  his  red  shirt  sticking  out  under  his  blue 
jumper,  —  pretty  well  out-growed,  I  should  say."  Ah, 
Miss  Harris,  I  'm  afraid  you  never  read  the  old  story 
about  "eyes  and  no  eyes!" 


1 62  Inside  our  Gate. 

Between  Douglas  and  Elinor  came  "the  little 
brother," — very  near  to  Douglas,  while  indeed  he 
was  but  a  mere  baby  himself;  but  he  adopted  him  at 
once.  "  Douglas's  baby,"  he  called  him  ;  "  Douglas's 
baby,"  we  all  called  him,  —  it  almost  seemed  his 
name.  He  was  still  so  little  when  he  left  us  that 
to  one  who  has  never  owned  and  lost  a  child,  it 
would  be  a  surpassing  wonder,  a  thing  inexplicable, 
how  such  a  short  tarrying  of  a  little  soul  with  us 
could  leave  us  with  so  great  a  longing,  and  his  loss  with 
a  wound  too  deep  to  heal.  Douglas  now  remembers 
but  one  thing  about  him,  —  a  day  when  Debby  took 
him  and  the  baby  into  a  daisy-field,  and  the  baby 
picked  the  white  petals  from  the  flowers,  and  threw 
them  away,  as  fast  as  Douglas  gave  them  to  him. 

The  children  like  to  listen  to  stories  of  the  baby, 
of  how  he  loved  to  watch  the  leaves  fluttering  in  the 
trees,  taking  the  waving  of  the  branches  as  a  special 
courtesy  to  him,  and  waving  his  little  hand  and  bowing 
and  smiling,  saying  "  by-by."  A  single  leaf  he  called 
a  "by-by." 

I  think  it  is  very  wonderful  to  see  how  real  love  may 
exist  without  sight.  Elinor,  who  has  only  heard  of  the 
baby,  feels  him  to  be  as  real  and  dear  as  I  do.  She 
knows  he  lives  with  Jesus,  who  is  her  friend,  and  who 
is  ready  to  listen  to  her  at  any  moment ;  and  so  she 


Inside  our  Gate.  163 

may,  she  thinks,  send  messages  to  the  "  little  brother  " 
at  any  time.  She  often  thanks  God  for  him  in  her 
prayer,  sends  her  love  to  him,  and  in  the  dark  I  often 
hear  a  little  kiss  which  she  adds  to  her  night's  greeting. 
Sometimes  she  sends  kisses  to  others  there  whom  she 
has  loved. 

For  many  years  we  went  regularly  for  long  Summers 
to  the  cottage  by  the  Bay;  then  sickness  and  busi 
ness  separated  us,  and  death  came  among  us,  and 
the  cottage  seemed  like  a  pleasant  memory  alone. 
But  it  was  still  ours,  and  it  was  there  we  turned  when 
the  baby  became  ill.  We  hoped  the  sweet,  invigorat 
ing  air  would  restore  him ;  alas,  it  could  not !  But  it 
did  much  for  me,  and  a  sympathy  seemed  to  come  to 
me  in  my  sorrow  from  the  very  sky  and  the  familiar 
trees.  They  seemed  like  silent,  tender  friends. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness  of  the  village 
people.  A  man  came  one  day  to  the  kitchen  door 
selling  berries..  Debby  was  there  trying  to  amuse 
Douglas  and  keep  him  still.  She  told  the  man  of  our 
sick  baby.  "Yes,  I  know  of  it,"  he  said.  "I  live 
some  way  out  of  the  village,  but  I  heard  it  mentioned 
in  a  prayer  at  the  meeting  last  week.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you  all." 

The  cook  forgot  one  night  to  keep  the  baby's  milk 
separate  from  the  rest,  —  the  milk  that  came  from  one 


164  Inside  our  Gate. 

particular  cow,  —  and  it  was  after  eight  o'clock  when 
Debby  found  that  there  was  no  milk  to  give  him  his 
medicine  in. 

"Oh,  what  shall  we  do?"  I  cried;  "  we  can't  get 
any  till  morning  !  Perhaps  he  won't  touch  his  medi 
cine  in  water,  and  he  will  cry  for  the  milk  ! " 

"  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do/'  said  Debby.  It  hurt  her 
almost  as  much  as  it  did  me  to  have  the  dear  beautiful 
baby  troubled. 

The  baby  slept  on  past  his  hour  for  taking  the  milk. 
I  wanted  Debby.  Hilda  said  she  saw  her  go  out  of 
the  gate.  Half  an  hour  and  more  went  by.  The 
night  was  dark ;  and  a  drizzling  rain  was  falling. 
Still,  mercifully  the  baby  slept.  Then  I  heard  voices, 
and  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  lantern  coming  up  the  hill. 
Presently  our  gate  latch  clicked,  and  then  I  heard 
Debby's  voice  in  the  kitchen.  In  a  moment  more  she 
came  to  me  with  a  little  pitcher  in  her  hand. 

"  I  got  it,"  she  said  in  triumph.  "  Cap'n  Darling 
went  to  the  pasture  and  milked  Kitty.  I  thought 
Mrs.  Darling  might  have  a  little  of  Kitty's  milk  by 
itself,  and  so  I  just  ran  down  to  see.  The  house 
was  all  dark ;  but  I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  after 
a  while  Mrs.  Darling  put  her  head  out  of  the  end 
window,  with  a  nightcap  on,  and  asked  what  I  wanted. 
She  said  the  cap'n  was  in  bed  and  had  a  real  bad  pain, 


Inside  our  Gate.  165 

but  she  'd  see  what  he  could  do ;  she  knew  there 
was  n't  a  bit  of  Kitty's  milk  in  the  house.  Then 
she  lighted  a  lamp  and  let  me  in,  and  Cap'n  Dar 
ling  dressed  himself;  and  when  he  found  it  was  rain 
ing  he  came  back  and  put  on  that  big  yellow  oil-skin 
coat  he  goes  fishing  in,  and  a  cap  like  it,  and  lit  a 
lantern,  and  went  into  the  field  and  milked  Kitty.  It 
took  him  a  long  time,  he  said,  to  find  Kitty  in  the 
dark;  he  thought  the  huckleberry-bushes  were  cows 
two  or  three  times,  and  then  he  got  the  wrong  cow ; 
but  here  the  milk  is.  He  walked  up  the  hill  to 
light  me." 

"  How  good  he  was  !  "  I  said. 

"  I  don't  know  as  you  ever  heard,  Mrs.  Burroughs," 
said  Debby,  "  that  they  had  another  child  besides  that 
son  who  died  a  few  years  ago  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  continued  Debby,  "he  said  they  lost  a  little 
girl  long  ago ;  and  ever  since  we  came  he  felt  awful 
sorry  for  us  and  the  sick  baby.  Mrs.  Darling  took 
a  lamp  in  the  parlor  while  he  was  out,  and  showed 
me  the  picture  of  the  little  girl  in  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  little  covers.  She  was  a  real  pretty  child. 
It  seems  hard  not  to  have  one  left  when  they  are 
old." 

Poor  Cap'n  Darling  !     He  had  done  that  kindness 


1 66  Inside  our  Gate. 

out  of  love  for  a  little  child  who  had  been  dead  for 
thirty  years.  How  beautiful  love  is !  I  sat  and 
thought  of  it  by  the  dear  baby's  bed  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  it  comforted  me. 

With  the  very  last  day  of  Summer  the  baby  went 
from  us.  So  sweet  he  looked,  his  little  cheeks  and 
hands  still  brown  from  the  Summer  sun  and  air  in 
which  he  had  lived,  lying  freshly  dressed  in  his 
own  little  bed.  The  woodbine  covered  the  little 
white-curtained  window  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I 
did  n't  wish  a  flower  about  him.  He  never  had 
had  flowers  about  him  when  he  slept. 

Dear  little  lamb  !  I  could  not  bear  to  touch  his  cold 
cheek,  but  I  laid  my  cheek  softly  on  his  light  hair 
again  and  again  and  again ;  it  was  the  only  caress 
I  could  give  and  not  be  chilled  to  my  heart. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  morning  when  Allan  and 
I  went  down  the  street  toward  the  East  Bay,  with  the 
heaviest  hearts  we  had  ever  carried.  It  was  a  fresh, 
sweet  day,  with  a  light  breeze  blowing ;  all  the  willow- 
trees  were  bending  and  swaying,  and  the  white  oaks 
with  their  stout  trunks,  rich  in  silver  bark  and  golden 
lichens,  fluttered  their  pale-green  leaves  against  the 
fair  blue  sky,  as  we  had  seen  them  hundreds  of 
times  before.  All  along  the  roadside  the  wild  pinks 
were  fragrant. 


Inside  our  Gate.  167 

As  we  turned  the  corner  by  the  big  willows,  we 
came  suddenly  upon  the  wide  stretch  of  the  Bay  and 
sea.  The  soft  noise  of  the  waves  upon  the  beach 
reached  us  long  before  the  sight  of  them.  There,  too, 
was  the  white  cottage  on  the  low  hillside  where  we 
were  going,  with  the  great  poplars  in  front  and  the 
yard  full  of  gay  flowers.  Yet  my  heart  failed  me  as  I 
saw  it,  for  we  were  going  there  for  the  little  baby's 
last  bed. 

We  went  up  the  narrow  path  bordered  with  white 
shells,  saw  the  parrot  sitting  on  his  perch  by  the 
kitchen  door,  —  the  parrot  which  the  sailor  son  had 
brought  from  Brazil.  Mrs.  Day  stood  waiting  for  us  at 
the  open  door.  She  held  my  hand  close  as  she  wished 
me  good-morning.  We  went  into  the  little  sitting- 
room  and  sat  down  in  silence,  for  we  could  not  speak. 

"  I  know  what  you  've  come  for,"  she  said  in  a 
minute.  "  My  husband  is  n't  at  home,  but  I  can  at 
tend  to  it  as  well  as  he  can."  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "  I  felt  real  sorry  for  you,"  she  said,  "  when  I 
heard  of  it  yesterday.  I  've  known  the  same  trouble 
three  times." 

"  How  did  you  bear  it  >  "  I  asked  her.  "  It  seems 
to  me  I  cannot  live  with  this  aching  heart.  I  can't 
think  of  anything  else.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  heart 
beats,  'baby,  baby,  baby,'  asleep  and  awake." 


1 68  Inside  our  Gate. 

"You  know  this  is  your  first  loss  by  death,"  she 
said.  "  The  first  I  knew  of  it  too  was  when  I  lost 
my  first  baby ;  but  I  never  felt  that  same  grief  again, 
though  I  've  lost  two  children  since  and  many  friends. 
It  seemed  before  the  baby  died  that  none  of  my  folks 
could  die,  and  now  I  know  they  can  just  like  other 
people's.  The  first  time  is  the  worst  time. 

"  I  '11  take  you  to  the  shop  now,"  she  said,  rising ; 
and  we  followed  her  through  a  long  pleasant  kitchen 
to  a  back-yard  which  was  fenced  in  with  a  white 
washed  fence,  and  seemed  a  sort  of  cosey  out-of-door 
room.  We  crossed  the  yard  to  the  shop.  "  It  is  an 
odd  shop,"  she  said,  replying  to  Allan's  look  of  sur 
prise.  "It  used  to  be  a  deck-house  on  a  schooner. 
My  husband  bought  it  and  put  a  second  story  on  it  to 
dry  cranberries  in ;  and  he  works  at  his  carpentering 
in  this  room.  I  suppose  it  does  look  queer  to  see  the 
bulging  sides  and  the  little  slanting  windows." 

The  sun  streamed  into  the  long  narrow  room.  The 
floor  was  covered  with  shavings,  and  the  air  was  sweet 
with  the  smell  of  pine  wood.  In  a  minute  Mrs.  Day 
brought  from  an  inner  room  a  little  white  casket  and 
laid  it  on  the  carpenter's  bench  by  which  we  stood. 
None  of  us  could  speak  for  tears.  It  seemed  to  me 
my  heart  must  break.  At  last  she  said  (her  hand 
on  mine),  "  No  matter  how  resigned  we  are  to  God's 


Inside  our  Gate.  169 

will,  no  matter  if  we  do  know  that  the  baby  is  far 
better  off,  the  pain  must  come.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could 
put  two  years  over  your  head !  Time  does  help  to 
heal." 

"  It  never  can  heal  my  sorrow,"  I  cried ;  "  the  sun 
can  never  shine  the  same  for  me.  My  life  will  never 
be  the  same." 

"  No,  the  sorrow  will  never  leave  you,"  she  an 
swered  quietly ;  "  but  by  that  time  you  will  have  got 
used  to  bearing  the  pain.  It  will  not  be  a  surprise  to 
you  any  more,  nor  a  strange  thing  that  you  think  of 
all  the  time.  I  surely  ought  to  know,"  she  added. 

I  put  my  hand  upon  the  lining  of  the  little  casket. 
"  It  feels  so  hard,"  I  said.  "  I  know  that  it  is  foolish 
to  say  it,  but  could  it  be  made  a  little  softer?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  can,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  do  it  myself. 
I  am  about  as  handy  with  tools  as  father  and  the 
boys.  Why,  I  've  some  wool  my  sister-in-law  from 
Vermont  sent  me  from  her  own  sheep.  I  '11  untack 
the  lining  and  put  a  soft  layer  of  that  all  round 
the  sides  and  across  the  bottom.  Would  that  com 
fort  you?  " 

I  could  only  smile  gratefully.  Was  n't  that  a  motherly 
thing  to  offer? 

"  Then  this  evening  after  dark,"  she  said,  "  I  '11  let 
my  Willy  carry  it  to  your  house.  ' 


170  Inside  our  Gale. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  it  is  dreadful  to  think  of  putting  my 
baby  in  the  ground.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  sleep, 
thinking  of  the  cold  rains  and  snow  on  that  little 
spot." 

"  Why  do  you  have  it  done,  then?"  she  said.  "The 
tomb  has  just  been  fixed  over.  It  is  whitewashed  all 
sweet  and  clean  inside,  and  the  floor  is  spread  with 
sea-sand,  and  nobody  has  been  laid  there  except  Mary 
Fletcher ;  you  knew  her.  Her  husband  wants  to  buy 
a  lot  in  the  town  he  lives  in,  in  Vermont,  so  she  is 
there  still." 

Yes,  I  had  known  her,  —  a  quiet,  gentle  little  woman 
to  whom  I  would  have  trusted  my  baby  at  any  time  ; 
and  it  was  strange  how  this  relieved  me,  —  the  very 
thought  eased  the  pain. 

The  little  graveyard  was  familiar  to  me  too.  It  lies 
on  a  hillside  sloping  toward  the  south,  and  from  it  you 
can  look  down  on  the  sea  with  the  white-sailed  boats 
and  the  far-off  ships,  dim  and  ghostly  on  the  horizon 
as  if  they  were  bearing  souls  away  to  the  world  in 
visible.  Nature  had  been  left  to  brighten  the  spot  in 
her  own  way.  The  fairest  grasses,  and  wild  roses,  and 
daisies,  and  later,  golden  rod  and  asters,  in  wonder 
ful  color  and  of  many  kinds,  glorified  the  place.  It 
lay  in  peace  and  quietness  day  and  night,  like  a  cham 
ber  of  rest,  with  no  sounds  but  the  breath  of  the 


Inside  our  Gale.  171 

winds  and  the  measured  rush  of  the  sea  waves  on 
the  shore. 

We  went  out  through  the  gate  in  the  white  fence 
into  the  side-yard,  where  the  barn  stood.  I  knew  that 
barn  when  it  was  an  old  windmill  and  stood  in  Mr. 
Abram  Wilder's  field,  throwing  its  aimless  arms  about 
in  every  breeze.  I  remembered  when  it  was  moved 
here  and  made  into  a  barn,  —  an  odd  barn,  with  a 
base  broader  than  its  top,  and  the  door  opening  in  the 
inclined  plane  of  the  side.  Mrs.  Day  offered  to  har 
ness  up  the  horse  if  we  would  wait,  and  take  us  home. 

But  no  ;  I  wanted  to  walk.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
never  could  rest  again,  —  that  I  must  walk  and  work 
without  ceasing.  Mrs.  Day  gave  me  a  sprig  of  lemon 
verbena  which  she  picked  through  the  whitewashed 
fence,  and  stood  looking  after  us  as  we  went  down 
the  road. 

A  little  farther  on  we  met  Henry  Leeds,  driving 
in  his  open  wagon,  and  as  usual  sitting  in  his  green 
chair,  as  if  he  had  just  lifted  a  portion  of  his  kitchen 
floor  and  what  happened  to  be  standing  on  it  upon 
wheels,  and  started  off.  He  drove  up  to  the  path 
when  he  saw  us,  stopped  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
me,  and  then  to  Allan.  "  I  only  just  heard  of  it  to 
the  store,"  he  said.  "The  Lord  comfort  you  and 
help  you  to  bear  it !  Can  I  do  anything  for  you? " 


172  Inside  our  Gate. 

We  thanked  him  and  said  no ;  but  we  should  have 
said  that  he  already  had  done  us  a  kindness,  as  had 
the  kindly  woman  we  had  just  left,  for  my  heart  was 
not  as  heavy  going  home  as  when  I  came. 

But,  oh,  that  little  room  in  the  cottage  !  We  could 
not  bear  to  go  in ;  we  could  not  bear  to  stay  away. 
Little  Douglas  had  peeped  in,  and  gone  away  whis 
pering,  "  I  must  step  softly ;  Debby  won't  like  it  if  I 
wake  her  baby." 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Darling,  who  was  very 
feeble,  came  toiling  up  the  hill  to  the  cottage.  She 
brought  with  her  a  little  cream  jug,  shaded  from  pur 
ple  to  gold  with  a  gilded  band  of  roughened  china 
round  it,  and  purple  flowers  about  the  base,  —  a  very 
pretty  old-fashioned  thing.  She  said  she  had  heard 
that  I  was  fond  of  old-fashioned  china,  and  so  she  had 
brought  me  this ;  it  had  belonged  to  her  grandmother. 
Then  she  took  from  her  bag  a  daguerreotype  and 
showed  me  the  picture  of  the  little  daughter  of  whom 
Debby  had  told  me,  —  a  sweet-faced  child.  She  told 
me  that  she  used  to  dress  her  for  church  in  a  light 
blue  merino  and  a  little  lace  cape  with  the  "  pattern 
run  in,"  and  blue  ribbons  on  her  hat.  She  told  me 
what  the  neighbors  had  said  about  her,  —  the  little 
Elizabeth,  —  of  how  she  would  sit  by  her  in  the  Sum 
mer  afternoons  and  sew  on  her  "  patch,"  and  how 


Inside  our  Gate.  173 

sweet  her  voice  was  for  singing.  No  one  could  guess 
what  a  comfort  it  was  to  me  to  listen  to  her. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  belonged  with  her  to  a  band 
whose  hearts  were  bound  together  by  a  secret  which 
could  not  be  known  till  this  sorrow  had  been  tasted ; 
and  people  who  knew  it  not  seemed  to  offer  words 
without  meaning  when  they  tried  to  comfort  me.  If 
a  stranger  said  to  me,  "  I  've  known  it,"  it  was  like 
balm  to  my  wound. 

That  same  day  we  sat  in  the  little  parlor,  Allan  and 
I,  with  idle  hands.  It  seemed  to  me,  after  the  haste, 
the  sleepless  days  and  nights,  that  the  very  world  had 
ceased  to  move.  Over  and  over  rang  these  little  lines 
through  my  head,  — 

"  Only  the  dear  God  knows  how  hearts 
Beat  on,  the  while  they  break." 

Captain  Darling  came  in  at  the  open  door.  He 
was  a  town  officer  and  had  come  to  ask  the  baby's 
name  and  age.  It  was  comforting  to  have  a  kind  and 
sympathizing  neighbor  come  on  this  errand.  "  My 
wife  told  me  she  'd  been  here  to-day,"  he  said.  "  She 
told  you  that  we  'd  been  through  with  all  this  trouble. 
Since  you  Ve  been  here,  wife  and  I  have  talked  over 
our  loss  a  good  deal,  and  it  seems  very  fresh  and 
near  to  us,  though  it  was  thirty  year  ago,  come  3d  of 


174  Inside  our  Gate. 

next  October."  His  honest,  kindly  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  He  shook  my  hand,  still  held  it,  and  shook  it 
again.  Then  he  took  Allan's  hand. 

Allan  asked  him  about  the  tomb.  Surely,  surely, 
he  said,  we  could  lay  the  baby  in  the  "  new  tomb." 
He  'd  attend  to  all  that ;  and  if  after  a  while,  we 
wanted  a  little  grave,  if  we  'd  just  write  to  him  he  'd 
do  it  all  himself,  near  his  own  plot;  and  he  added, 
"  I  used  to  tend  the  baby  a  good  deal,"  as  if  to  prove 
to  us  that  it  would  be  lovingly  done. 

"  Nobody  can  help  you  bear  it,"  he  said,  turning  to 
go,  and  yet  loath  to  leave  us.  "  I  would  help  you  if 
I  could.  It  seems  almost  as  if  the  Lord  did  n't  help, 
but  He  does ;  if  He  did  n't,  and  you  did  n't  know 
you  'd  see  the  child  again,  you  'd  feel  the  difference." 


VIII. 

ONE  morning  Douglas  and  I  started  off  together, 
as  we  had  done  so  often,  for  the  intelligence 
office.  It  turned  out  a  day  of  good  luck  for  us. 
On  this  day  our  star  was  propitious,  and  I  engaged 
the  very  first  nurse  I  spoke  to.  Her  references  were 
excellent,  and  she  really  was  attractive,  —  fresh,  rosy, 
and  buxom.  I  felt  that  she  was  to  prove  a  comfort 
to  me.  Having  settled  the  hour  of  her  coming,  and 
having  selected  a  train  for  her  and  marked  the 
time-table,  which  looked  with  its  rows  of  figures  like 
a  multiplication-table,  Douglas  and  I  set  out  for  a 
little  merry-making,  —  a  mild  one,  to  be  sure,  but  any 
thing  assumes  an  air  of  festivity  which  frees  one  from 
an  intelligence  office. 

First,  we  went  to  a  bird-store  in  a  distant  side 
street,  —  a  place  that  we  had  discovered  by  chance  one 
day,  —  a  bird-store  where  guinea-pigs  were  also  to  be 
found,  and  doves  and  a  cage  of  monkeys.  There  was 
a  peacock  there  too,  boxed  in  a  cage  of  slats  between 
which  he  thrust  his  neck  of  exquisite  blue,  —  or  was 


176  Inside  our  Gate, 

it  green,  or  was  it  gold?  Something  was  wanting 
about  that  peacock :  it  must  have  been  a  big  vase 
and  a  balustrade,  such  as  always  accompany  peacocks 
in  pictures.  But  we  really  went  to  see  the  monkeys. 
There  was  a  bold,  bad  old  monkey  in  a  cage  in  the 
window.  He  stared  at  the  people  that  crowded  about 
the  window,  turning  his  head  and  gazing  critically, 
as  if  they  were  monkeys  and  he  were  the  spectator. 
There  were  also  two  little  monkeys,  —  new  arrivals, 
timid,  gentle  little  creatures,  that  sat  in  the  corner 
farthest  from  the  window,  with  their  backs  toward  the 
crowd  and  with  their  arms  about  each  other. 

We  went  into  the  store.  We  had  been  there  before 
to  call  on  the  monkeys  and  birds,  and  the  store-keeper 
was  glad  to  see  us.  When  he  saw  the  red  apple 
Douglas  had  brought,  he  took  out  a  big  jack-knife  and 
cut  it  in  quarters  for  the  monkey.  As  I  reached  the 
cage  with  a  piece  of  apple  in  my  fingers,  it  slipped  to 
the  floor.  As  I  stooped  to  get  it,  I  was  struck,  as  it 
seemed,  by  a  blizzard.  My  veil  was  torn  off,  my  bon 
net  dragged  to  one  side,  my  hair  pulled  over  my  fore 
head  with  a  jerk  that  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 

The  man  rushed  to  my  rescue,  and  delivered  me 
from  the  long  hairy  arm  of  the  bad  old  monkey,  who 
retired,  chattering,  to  the  end  of  the  cage.  There  was 
a  shout  of  derisive  glee  from  the  boys  outside.  The 


Inside  our  Gate.  177 

man  kindly  straightened  my  bonnet,  according  to  a 
man's  light,  —  for  there  was  no  looking-glass  there ; 
and  after  we  had  made  believe  that  we  wanted  to  look 
at  bird-seed  and  white  mice  for  ten  minutes,  till  a 
fresh  relay  of  boys  had  appeared  outside,  we  went 
out  hastily,  and  looking  no  man  in  the  face  hurried 
to  the  block  below,  where  there  was  a  little  circulating 
library  and  shop  of  old  books  kept  by  a  woman.  This 
woman  owned  a  looking-glass,  and  aided  by  it  I  made 
myself  fairly  presentable.  It  took  some  time,  and  she 
had  to  bring  me  a  little  tomato  pin-cushion,  with 
needles  and  a  spool  of  silk,  that  I  might  securely  sew 
on  again  the  knot  of  velvet  that  the  monkey  had  nearly 
pulled  from  my  bonnet. 

As  I  sat  and  sewed,  I  felt  as  if  I  must  have  been 
invited  to  spend  the  day  and  bring  my  work  with  me  ; 
and  I  became,  so  to  speak,  rather  intimate  with  the 
"  circulating  librarian,"  as  she  called  herself.  Among 
other  things  we  discussed  primers ;  I  wanted  one  for 
Elinor,  and  there  were  several  kinds  in  the  store. 
One  of  them  contained  such  exercises  as  these,  — 

"  B-e-1-l-e,  a  fine  young  lady. 
"  B-e-1-1,  a  sounding  vessel,"  — 

and  the  following  lines,  which  were  surely  concocted 
by  Dr.  Johnson,  — 


178  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  T-o-l-l,  a  sum  exacted  by  law  for  passage  on  a  pri 
vate  way. 

"  T-o-l-l,  the  repeated  reverberation  of  a  bell." 

The  little  shop  was  narrow  and  low,  and  the  walls 
were  covered  with  books.  I  picked  up  "  The 
Mother's  Recompense  "  and  "  Home  Influence  "  — 
how  old  they  made  me  feel !  —  and  then  the  "  Lamp 
lighter." 

"Do  you  have  any  call  for  these  books?"  said  I. 
"  I  should  think  the  new  cheap  novels  would  entirely 
take  the  place  of  them." 

"  Oh,  these  are  not  to  sell ;  they  belong  to  our  circu 
lating  library,"  said  the  woman.  "  They  Ve  just  come 
in  and  have  n't  been  covered  yet,  but  they  "11  take. 
Anything  about '  mother  '  or  '  home '  is  sure  to  take." 

"  Or  about  heaven?  "  I  suggested. 

"  No,  oh,  no,"  said  she ;  "  sermons  don't  take  at  all 
in  circulating  libraries." 

These  titles  had  revived  old  memories.  "  Do  T.  S. 
Arthur's  books  sell?  Do  you  keep  them?  Do  you 
have  '  Maiden,  Wife,  and  Mother ? '"  I  asked  at  a 
venture. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  always  keep  them,  and  they  circulate 
well." 

"And  Rev.  E.  P.  Roe,"  I  asked,  "his  books,  I 
suppose,  are  always  out?" 


Inside  our  Gate.  179 

"  Always,"  she  said.  "  One  is  hardly  returned  be 
fore  it  is  out  again.  For  deep  books,"  she  went  on, 
—  "  for  deep  books  and  for  old  valuable  books,  my 
husband  has  a  fine  trade.  Learned  gentlemen  come 
here  when  they  are  writing  on  great  subjects,  and  want 
to  hunt  up  old  books.  My  husband  can  always  put 
them  on  the  track  of  them." 

She  brought  a  curious  edition  of  Bunyan  to  show 
me,  —  poems,  so  called,  and  fugitive  pieces,  illustrated 
with  fine  freedom,  —  a  freedom  which  released  the 
artist  altogether  from  the  restraints  of  truth  and  fact. 
A  boy  chased  a  butterfly  bigger  than  his  head,  wav 
ing  a  hat  that  would  have  fitted  the  butterfly ;  and 
"  the  fowler  that  set  the  snare  "  captured  a  perfect 
megatherium. 

A  large  window  at  the  end  of  the  store  looked  out 
into  a  paved  yard  in  which  stood  one  fine  tree.  There 
was  a  little  space  between  the  houses  at  the  rear,  so 
that  there  was  a  patch  of  blue  sky  to  be  seen  be 
yond  the  tree-branches.  The  tree  was  just  coming 
into  leaf. 

"  Beautiful,  is  n't  it  ?  "  said  the  woman,  looking  to 
ward  the  window.  "  I  often,"  she  continued,  "  hold  a 
book  up  just  under  my  eyes  to  shut  off  the  brick  walls 
and  the  tree-trunk,  and  with  those  budding  branches 
against  the  sky  I  can  quite  imagine  myself  out  in 


180  Inside  our  Gate. 

the  country.  It  must  be  getting  beautiful  there  now. 
Have  you  seen  it  this  Spring?" 

"  I  live  in  the  country,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pleasure  !  My  husband  and  I  hope 
to  own  a  little  place  in  the  country  sometime ;  and  are 
the  apple-trees  in  blossom  ?  " 

A  little  old  woman  in  a  brown  Mother  Hubbard, 
with  a  black-lace  cap  with  purple  ribbons,  —  she  was 
the  husband's  mother,  —  was  sitting  by  the  window. 
She  broke  in  here  to  say  that  when  she  was  a  young 
girl  in  England,  she  used  to  think  the  first  primrose 
was  worth  a  fortune.  Her  father  was  a  haberdasher 
in  London,  and  they  seldom  went  out  into  the  coun 
try,  so  that  the  primroses  really  made  Summer  for 
them. 

"  They  carried  them  about  London  streets  to  sell," 
she  said,  "  in  great  baskets  on  their  backs ;  and  I  sup 
pose  they  do  still.  And,  oh,  it  was  a  fine  sight  in  May 
to  see  the  blooming  plants  hawked  about  the  streets, 
and  every  window-sill,  from  cellar  to  attic,  from  the 
little  houses  near  the  mews  to  the  grand  folk's  homes 
in  the  squares,  all  with  window-boxes  glowing  with 
flowers  !  But  I  've  never  been  back  to  see  it." 

"  It  is  all  there  is  to  see  still,"  I  said.  "  Only  a 
few  years  ago  I  was  in  London  in  the  Spring,  and 
the  window-boxes  were  full  of  geranium,  and  Covent 


Inside  our  Gate.  181 

Garden  Market  was  like  Summer  itself  with  armfuls  of 
wall-flower  and  roses ;  and  the  men  went  about  selling 
the  potted  plants  in  hand- carts,  and  calling,  — 

"  '  Flowers  a-growin' !     Flowers  a-bloin' ! '  " 

"And  the  little  girls  cryin'  early  in  the  mornin', 
'  Water  cresses  !  Water  cresses  ! '  in  a  sort  of  tune  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  just  the  same." 

"Ay,"  she  said,  "all  goes  on  the  same;  but  the 
ones  who  made  England  dear  to  me  have  all  gone  to 
a  better  country.  Oh,  when  I  was  married  and  came 
here,  I  used  to  be  longin'  and  longin'  to  get  back  to 
England  !  But  now  they  are  all  gone ;  it  is  n't  Eng 
land  at  all  that  I  long  for  now,  but  for  that  land. 
Catharine  here,"  she  continued,  "  and  my  son,  they 
are  always  hopin'  that  the  next  Spring  they  '11  have  a 
home  in  the  country,  for  they  are  young  [Catharine 
was  every  day  of  sixty],  but  I  shall  soon  see  the  leaves 
of  the  Tree  of  Life.  I  'm  eighty-five  years  old.  But 
't  is  a  pleasant  thought ;  't  is  a  pleasant  thought !  It 
cheers  me  to  sit  and  think  of  it." 

Douglas,  who  had  been  listening  attentively  to  the 
old  woman,  gathering  the  idea  that  she  was  anxious 
to  get  to  some  pleasant  country  place  she  had  in 
mind,  stepped  up  to  her  and  said.  — 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  come  and  live  at  our  house ; 


1 82  Inside  our  Gate. 

we  have  plenty  of  trees  and  flowers,  and  there  are  lots 
of  people  in  our  town." 

"  Bless  your  little  heart ! "  said  the  old  woman,  — 
"  bless  your  little  heart !  I  thank  you,  but  soon  I  am 
goin'  to  a  pleasanter  town  and  pleasanter  house  than 
yours,  fine  as  they  may  be.  Don't  ye  know  where 
people  go  when  they  get  through  with  this  world  ?  " 

"Oh,  did  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  heaven?" 
said  Douglas,  his  face  lighting  up  with  a  pleasant  sur 
prise.  "  I  know  all  about  heaven.  My  brother  lives 
there,  and  lots  of  my  friends,  and  my  grandmother 
too.  You  '11  like  her.  They  '11  look  out  for  you. 
My  brother  will  be  good  to  you ;  you  must  tell  him 
about  me.  Are  you  going  soon  ?  " 

"God  willin',"  said  the  old  woman. 

I  could  n't  bear  to  go  away,  but  we  had  to.  We 
parted  like  old  friends,  and  when  we  were  walking  to 
the  house  where  I  was  to  verify  one  of  my  new  nurse's 
references  we  planned  about  sending  a  big  box  of 
apple-blossoms  to  surprise  our  new  acquaintances. 

"  And  would  n't  it  be  nice  to  put  that  bird's  nest  in 
the  box  with  the  blossoms  ? "  said  Douglas ;  "  and 
you  could  write  a  note  to  say  that  we  didn't  steal 
it  from  a  bird,  but  just  found  it  on  the  path  after  a 
high  wind.  She  was  a  nice  old  lady,"  continued  he, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  think  they  '11  like  her  up  in  heaven." 


Inside  our  Gate.  183 

I  like  to  see  the  inside  of  houses.  Rooms  are  al 
most  like  people;  they  are  like  people's  biographies, 
surely.  They  tell  of  the  taste  of  the  owner,  be  they 
ever  so  poor. 

We  went  up  the  steps  of  an  old-fashioned  house 
on  a  corner.  It  was  surrounded  by  shabby  boarding- 
houses,  and  the  busy  streets  of  shops  were  only  round 
the  corner;  but  it  had  a  respectable  air  that  shamed 
the  neighborhood.  A  middle-aged  servant  opened  the 
door  and  put  us  into  the  parlor,  where  we  sat  in  silence 
and  looked  about  us.  The  room  had  very  high  ceil 
ings,  yellow  walls,  and  a  great  deal  of  stucco  orna 
ment  like  wedding-cake  trimming  about  the  cornices. 
There  were  tall  shaded  marble  vases  on  the  mantel, 
and  a  worsted-work  Eli  and  Samuel  over  it.  After 
the  omnipresent  peacock  plush  and  red  plush  and  old- 
gold  plush  and  ebony  and  cherry,  it  was  not  only  a 
relief  to  see  mahogany-and-haircloth  furniture,  but  it 
was  positively  a  pleasure  to  my  eye.  Douglas,  to  be 
sure,  slipped  off  his  seat  every  time  he  moved,  but  he 
liked  that.  The  old  piano  had  square  legs.  There 
were  indifferent  portraits  in  oil  on  the  wall,  and  the 
usual  pale  lifeless  water-color  flowers  of  school-days 
long  gone  by.  Under  the  pier-table  was  a  sanded 
board  with  a  weeping  willow  on  it,  all  made  of  crimped 
green  tissue-paper.  And  it  was  a  wonder  how  that  lit- 


184  Inside  our  Gate. 

tie  gilt  milking-stool  had  forced  its  way  into  this  parlor, 
—  a  little  milking-stool  with  apple-blossoms  painted  on 
it,  and  its  legs  tied  up  with  a  bow  of  ribbons,  orange 
and  green.  Poor  little  milking-stool,  without  its  cow 
and  its  maid  and  its  grassy  field  !  How  lonely  it  must 
have  felt  in  a  parlor  !  On  the  door  hung  a  banner 
of  purple  velvet  trimmed  with  gold  fringe,  and  on 
the  banner  these  consoling  words,  "  Ever  Faithful." 
Whether  the  banner  was  faithful  to  the  door,  or 
faithful  to  the  family,  it  did  not  say ;  but  so  long  as 
it  was  faithful  to  its  own  ideal,  whatever  its  ideal 
might  be,  it  is  enough. 

Behind  the  sofa,  with  its  claw-feet,  I  saw  two  little 
portraits  in  water-color,  about  the  size  of  miniatures. 
They  were  framed  in  deep  unburntshed  gilt  frames. 
They  were  charming,  so  lifelike  and  attractive.  One 
was  of  an  old  man  sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeves  working 
away  with  a  chisel  on  a  wooden  eagle  he  was  carv 
ing.  His  sleeves  were  a  pale  pink,  and  his  vest  a 
gray-blue ;  and  he  worked  away  for  dear  life  on  his 
eagle,  and  his  spectacles  were  set  back  on  his  fore 
head.  He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  you  'd 
have  had  to  shake  him  before  he  would  hear  you  call 
him  to  dinner. 

The  old  woman  in  the  other  frame  sat  calmly 
knitting  with  her  eyes  on  her  work.  She  had  a 


Inside  our  Gate.  185 

close  thin  muslin  cap  on  her  head  through  which 
her  hair  showed,  and  the  strings  were  thrown  over 
her  shoulders  as  if  she  were  warm.  She  had  a  gray 
gown  on  and  a  white  kerchief  round  her  neck,  and 
she  looked  as  alive  and  real  as  many  a  live  old  lady 
I  have  seen,  sitting  and  knitting  and  thinking  in  the 
leisure  hour  before  tea. 

We  heard  steps  approaching,  and  I  settled  myself 
properly  on  the  haircloth  sofa.  An  old  lady  and 
another  lady,  whom  I  knew  to  be  a  maiden  daughter, 
came  in.  They  had  pleasant  manners  and  made  ex 
cuses  for  delaying  me.  The  mother  was  old,  and  knew 
it,  and  was  content.  But  "  Miss  Matilda,"  with  her  big 
front  piece  of  frizzes,  and  her  large  panier  and  super 
abundance  of  false  teeth,  was  making  a  determined 
clutch  at  departing  youth ;  and  she  it  must  have  been 
that  imported  the  milking-stool  and  the  banner  into 
this  ancient  parlor.  Poor  Miss  Matilda  !  "  I  insist  on 
belonging  to  this  day  and  generation,"  she  seemed  to 
say  by  her  youthful  manner. 

I  asked  about  my  new  nurse,  who  had  lived  with 
Mrs.  Frothingham's  married  daughter,  and  my  im 
pressions  were  confirmed.  Mary  Shannon  was  a  treas 
ure.  Then  I  told  them  how  charming  I  thought  the 
portraits. 

The   elder   lady  was   pleased;    but   she    evidently 


1 86  Inside  our  Gate. 

thought  little  of  my  taste  in  preferring  the  little 
water-colors  to  the  big  oil  portraits.  I  don't  know 
why  oil  pictures  are  treated  by  so  many  people  with 
a  respect  which  is  not  granted  by  them  to  water- 
colors.  Oil  and  water  are  both  cheap  enough,  for  that 
matter. 

Mrs.  Frothingham  kept  the  little  portraits,  she  said, 
because  her  cousin,  Mr.  Frederic  Bowers,  who  was  an 
artist,  painted  them  of  her  aunt  and  uncle,  "  just  as  he 
caught  them  one  day,"  —  I  knew  that  well.  He  had 
painted  a  picture  of  that  same  sort  of  her  brother  in 
his  youth,  and  she  sent  Miss  Matilda  to  fetch  it  from 
her  chamber. 

"  This  was  my  brother,"  she  said.  He  was  a  sweet, 
bright-faced  young  fellow  in  a  jacket  with  a  blue  rib 
bon  at  his  throat  and  a  turn-over  white  collar. 

"  My  brother  John,"  she  said ;  "  he  became  a  clergy 
man,  —  Rev.  John  Hubert" 

My  eyes  flew  wide  open. 

"  Not  the  old  minister  that  lived  so  long  in  our 
town?  Miss  Lois  wasn't  your  sister,  was  she?"  I 
cried. 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  said  the  old  lady,  delighted.  "  Did  you 
know  her  ?  Did  you  know  Brother  John  ?  " 

I  had  been  so  pleased  to  hear  of  her  friends  that 
it  was  something  of  a  come-down  to  say  that  my 


Inside  our  Gate.  187 

acquaintance  with  them  had  only  begun  after  their  de 
cease.  But  she  was  pleased  to  hear  of  the  oleander- 
tree,  and  of  the  kind  things  I  had  heard  of  her  brother 
and  sister  in  our  town.  Poor  old  lady,  she  seemed  as 
pleased  as  if  I  had  brought  a  message  to  her  from 
the  spirit  world  !  She  said  I  might  have  a  copy  made 
of  Brother  John's  picture,  and  any  other  of  the  por 
traits  I  wished.  She  had  no  picture  of  Miss  Lois,  but 
she  had  a  photograph  of  her.  I  was  afraid  to  look  at 
it.  I  was  glad  Miss  Matilda  could  n't  find  it.  The 
old  lady  was  going  to  make  Miss  Matilda  go  into  the 
attic  and  look  in  the  trunks  for  it,  but  I  said  I  must 
hasten  to  my  train ;  and  I  parted  with  them  as  with 
new-found  relatives. 

The  city  horse-car  that  carries  us  to  our  railroad 
station  is  a  dark-red  one  with  black  trimming.  That 
day  we  underwent  the  usual  experience  of  country 
people,  who,  with  just  time  to  catch  the  train,  see  car 
after  car  appear  and  disappear,  —  all  but  the  right  one. 
We  saw  the  green  car,  and  the  yellow,  and  the  dark- 
green  with  orange  trimming,  and  the  light-yellow  with 
brown  trimming,  roll  by.  At  last  the  red  car  did 
come. 

I  often  pity  the  drivers  and  conductors  on  the 
horse-cars  on  the  road.  They  have  to  eat  their  meals 
out  of  tin  pails  right  under  the  eyes  of  the  passengers ; 


1 88  Inside  our  Gate. 

but  one  day  I  saw  a  pleasant  sight.  A  young  woman 
in  a  fresh  calico  gown  and  big  white  apron  brought 
the  conductor  his  luncheon  in  a  basket.  She  met  the 
car  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  got  in  and  sat  with  the 
young  fellow  in  one  corner  while  he  ate  his  dinner. 
He  spread  a  fresh  white  napkin  in  his  lap  and  ate 
with  a  plated  fork.  They  talked  and  laughed  in  an 
undertone,  and  made  a  little  home  in  the  corner. 
The  car  seemed  to  me,  the  only  occupant,  to  be  their 
dining-room,  and  the  long  narrow  advertisements  of 
Sapolio  and  shoes,  and  the  warnings  to  passengers, 
to  melt  into  mottoes  of  "  Welcome  "  and  "  God  bless 
our  Home ;  "  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  an  ill-bred  person 
who  had  intruded  on  a  private  family. 

When  we  reached  home,  Scott  came  over  the  fence 
like  a  bird  on  the  wing.  Far  down  the  street  he 
had  taken  us  for  enemies,  for  spies,  for  sons  of  Belial, 
and  barked  at  us  with  his  legs  apart ;  but  a  wave  of 
Douglas's  hand  and  a  yodle,  and  he  came  dashing 
toward  us,  wild  with  joy.  And  so  we  went  on,  protest 
ing  against  his  embraces  and  kisses,  and  taking  up  his 
mind  by  throwing  sticks  for  him  to  chase. 

That  very  same  evening,  as  we  were  just  through 
tea,  there  were  wafted  in  the  sounds  of  music.  It 
was  "ground  out"  music,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  all 
the  same  to  the  children.  Elinor  got  down  from  her 


Inside  our  Gate.  189 

chair  after  a  struggle,  and  ran  to  the  window,  looked 
out,  and  then  turned  to  me  with  a  radiant  face. 

"  Mother,  it  is  my  old  organ-grinder  man,  —  my 
dear  old  friend,"  she  said;  "and  he  has  a  monkey,  a 
live,  winking  monkey." 

"  I  dare  say,  Mary,"  said  Allan,  "  it  has  got  round 
that  you  have  a  monkey  mania.  How  many  monkeys 
does  this  make  to-day?" 

Douglas  was  at  the  window ;  Allan  went  too,  and 
the  table  was  deserted.  The  monkey  climbed  to  the 
piazza  and  jumped  upon  the  rocking-horse,  old  "Rough 
and  Ready,"  choosing  to  sit  facing  the  horse's  tail. 
He  wore  red  breeches,  a  little  cutaway  coat,  and  a 
bonnet  with  feathers,  —  a  real  Mrs.  Boffin  bonnet. 
Elinor  wanted  at  once  to  know  if  he  was  a  lady  or 
gentleman  monkey.  We  had  to  take  the  children  out 
to  feed  the  monkey.  He  accepted  a  cracker  and  ate 
it  contentedly  till  a  tea-cake  was  handed  him,  when 
he  laid  the  cracker  on  the  path.  He  climbed  the 
trees,  he  churned  with  a  toy  churn,  he  swept  the  gravel 
with  a  tiny  broom,  he  fiddled  on  a  little  fiddle,  but  all 
with  such  a  solemn  air,  as  if  he  saw  no  fun  in  the 
thing  himself,  but  was  willing  to  amuse  us  for  a 
consideration. 

Elinor  slipped  into  the  house  and  helped  herself  from 
the  cake-basket.  She  gave  her  "  dear  old  friend "  a 


i  go  Inside  our  Gate. 

handful  of  cake,  which  he  stopped  to  take  right  in  the 
middle  of  "  The  Sweet  By-and-By,"  making  the  pres 
ent  a  long-drawn  groan. 

Elinor  wanted  the  monkey  to  perform  his  tricks  over 
again,  but  the  man  shook  his  head.  "  Too  tire, 
monkey  work  all  day,  monkey  too  tire."  The  poor 
little  monkey  did  look  tired.  He  sat  on  the  grass  and 
leaned  against  a  tree-trunk.  Scott,  who  had  not  been 
thought  of,  came  running  from  behind  the  house ; 
but  he  stopped  with  his  legs  outspread,  and  peered 
round  the  corner  like  one  inspecting  a  suspicious 
character.  He  barked  short,  frightened  barks.  Allan 
invited  him  to  join  us,  but  he  dashed  upon  the  piazza, 
with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  disappeared  in  the 
house.  We  found  him  afterward  under  the  nursery 
bed,  trembling  with  terror.  I  suppose  it  was  a  shock 
to  his  nervous  system  to  see  that  little  black  old  man, 
as  he  supposed,  covered  with  fur  and  adorned  with  a 
long  tail.  In  a  minute  the  little  monkey  sprang  upon 
the  organ,  then  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  Italian,  com 
fortably  settled  his  head,  put  both  arms  round  the  old 
man's  neck,  and  looked  at  us,  blinking  his  white  eyes 
under  his  bonnet. 

The  old  man  laughed.  "  Too  tire,"  he  said,  and 
patted  his  little  partner.  Elinor  wished  to  walk  up 
the  road  a  little  way  to  "  welcome  them  off;  "  but  we 


Inside  our  Gate.  191 

persuaded  her  to  stand  on  the  gate-post  and  wave  a 
farewell.  "  Come  to-morrow,"  she  called ;  and  the 
old  man  nodded  and  waved  his  hand  as  well  as  he 
could  with  his  monkey  round  his  neck  and  the  organ 
on  his  back. 

Douglas  watched  him  up  the  road.  "  He  looks  like 
Pilgrim's  Progress  with  the  burden  of  sin  on  his  back," 
he  said. 


IX. 

TIBBIE  had  a  cousin,  "Tammas,"  —  the  father  of 
Rob,  whom  Tibbie  had  with  her  when  we  first 
met  her.  We  had  a  great  respect  for  Tammas  from 
all  we  heard  of  him  from  Tibbie.  We  had  never  seen 
him,  for  he  was  a  sailor  and  seldom  at  home.  And 
then  there  was  another  cousin  who  was  a  "  rigger ; " 
he  had  formerly  been  a  sailor  too,  —  he  went  to  sea 
first  when  he  was  nine  years  old,  and  had  a  medal  from 
the  Marquis  of  Lome  for  saving  a  life.  In  Tibbie's 
album  we  met  these  and  many  other  worthies  face  to 
face.  "Me  only  brither  Sandy,"  and  "  me  only  sister 
Winifred,  wha  lives  in  Toronto  wi'  me  faither's  sister," 
and  "  Mrs.  Clark  "  and  all  the  other  goodly  company 
were  there. 

There  came  a  sunny  Sunday  in  May,  when  the 
trees,  white  with  blossoms,  stood  like  tents  on  the 
green  grass,  and  the  long  rows  of  maples  were  in 
leaf,  and  the  unopened  leaves  of  grape-vines  were 
pink  like  rosebuds,  and  the  bare  branches  of  the 
locusts  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  us  that  Winter 


Inside  our  Gate.  193 

lingered,  —  in  vain,  since  a  Summer  sky  blessed  the 
day,  and  the  bluebirds  had  dared  the  sparrows. 
To  crown  this  sweet  day  with  glory,  just  before  din 
ner,  as  Douglas  was  sitting  on  the  kitchen  steps,  up 
the  walk,  in  at  the  gate,  along  the  path  to  the  well, 
came  Sandy. 

Douglas  divined  who  it  was  at  once.  Overjoyed, 
he  rushed  into  the  kitchen,  crying,  "  Tibbie,  Sandy 's 
come." 

Tibbie  ran  to  the  door,  and  cried,  "  Saw  ye  Johnny 
comin'  ?  " 

"Ay,  but  wi'oot  his  white  cockade  or  his  doggie 
rinnin',"  replied  Sandy,  laughing.  Sure  enough,  it 
was  Sandy  in  the  flesh. 

When  he  was  seated  in  the  kitchen,  Douglas  stood 
before  him,  gazing  in  unfeigned  admiration.  Here 
was  the  hero  at  last,  with  light  hair,  sunburnt  face, 
and  bright  blue  eyes  like  Tibbie's,  and  with  the 
very  anchor  on  his  right  hand  that  Tibbie  had  de 
scribed,  and  the  thistle,  and  cross  and  crown  on  his 
wrist,  and  on  the  other  hand  lots  of  little  pictures,  — 
oars  crossed,  and  a  flag.  And  though  Douglas  could 
not  see  through  the  coat-sleeve,  he  knew  that  on  his 
right  arm  was  printed,  "  Alexander  David  Drummond, 
Glasgow,  Scotland ; "  and  he  knew  that  all  across  his 
breast  was  drawn  in  blue  a  big  ship  under  full  sail,  — 
13 


194  Inside  our  Gate. 

"The  Caledonia."  Ah,  that  Douglas  could  see,  he  al 
most  believed,  right  through  the  coat  and  shirt.  This 
was  surely  a  brother  worth  owning,  one  who  could 
pour  out  tales  of  adventure,  and  was  himself  a  real 
picture-book  besides.  He  was  rich  too,  in  Douglas's 
eyes ;  for  Tibbie  had  boasted  of  his  wonderful  wages  as 
a  first-class  rigger  and  ship-carpenter,  as  well  as  sailor. 

"And  this  laddie,"  said  Tibbie,  introducing  Doug 
las,  "  is  a  Scottish  American,  like  what  ye  are  yourseF, 
Sandy.  Do  ye  mind  the  day  ye  begged  me  mither  for 
a  pair  of  bittes  [boots],  an'  she  sayed  '  Ye  maun  bide 
a  wee  till  after  the  queen's  taxes  is  paid  '  ?  An  ye 
flung  yoursel'  on  the  floor  a-cryin'  oot,  'What's  the 
queen's  taxes?'  an'  she  sayed  tae  yer,  'The  money 
we  has  to  give  to  support  the  queen ; '  an'  ye  shrieked 
oot,  '  The  beggar  !  An'  hae  I  to  gae  wi'oot  me  bittes 
tae  support  the  queen  ?  I  '11  none  o'  her  ! ' ' 

Sandy  "  minded  "  it. 

Then  Douglas  had  to  ask  Sandy  if  he  had  the  famous 
medal  about  him,  but  Sandy  said  that  was  "  behind  " 
in  Scotland. 

"  Oh,"  said  little  Douglas,  "  I  thought  you  wore  it 
round  your  neck  on  a  string ; "  adding  immediately, 
"  Were  you  ever  wrecked  on  a  desert  island  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  Ve  been  wrecked." 

Just  then  Tibbie  announced  that  dinner  was  ready, 


Inside  our  Gate.  195 

and  Douglas  went  reluctantly  to  the  dining-room. 
Soon  after  dinner  Sandy  had  to  go  back  to  the  city. 
It  was  a  blow  to  Douglas ;  but  he  followed  the  hero  to 
the  big  gate,  climbed  on  the  gate-post  and  watched 
him  till  he  turned  the  corner  to  the  station. 

But  this  was  only  one  hero,  the  leader  of  a  pro 
cession  of  heroes,  and  Sunday  was  the  best  day  to  ex 
pect  them.  Douglas  would  run  home  before  us  from 
church,  and  rush  to  the  kitchen  crying,  "  Tibbie,  did 
any  come?  " 

Behold,  one  Sunday,  there  was  Johnny  McPhail, 
steward  on  the  Thistle  Line.  Douglas  was  very  proud 
to  be  of  the  same  blood  as  these  distinguished  guests 
of  Tibbie's.  If  Tibbie  forgot  to  mention  the  fact,  he 
announced  it  himself,  —  "  I  'm  most  half  Scotch." 

"  Indeed,"  says  Johnny  McPhail,  "  ye  look  all 
Scotch;  an'  can  ye  say  'Good-night'  in  Scotch?" 

"  Guid-nicht,"  says  Douglas. 

"  I  '11  accept  ye  for  me  countryman  now,"  says 
Johnny. 

"  But  I  '11  have  to  vote  in  America,"  says  Douglas, 
"  because  I  was  born  here,  and  the  American  flag  is 
my  own  flag." 

"  I  '11  allow  ye  to  do  that  too,"  says  Johnny,  "  for 
I  'm  a  good  bit  of  an  American  myseF,  for  I  'm  goin' 
to  marry  an  American  girl." 


196  Inside  our  Gate. 

Then  Douglas  took  a  chair  near  Johnny  to  hear  Tib 
bie  tell,  amid  bursts  of  laughter,  how  she  had  taken 
Willy  Todd,  —  "  Wully  Toad,"  she  called  him,  —  "  for 
to  show  him  the  city." 

"  The  innocent ! "  she  cried,  "  all  gotten  up  in  his 
hame  claes."  She  had  taken  him,  she  said,  in  the  ele 
vated  cars,  where  he  sat  for  a  while  quite  unconscious 
that  he  was  creating  a  sensation  "  in  his  tartan  breeks 
and  vest  and  a  big  bonnet  wi'  a  cock's  plume  on  his 
heid,  an'  a  silver  thistle  on  a  big  Cairngorm  stone  in  his 
cravat,  and  a  big  club  o'  a  staff.  But  at  last  says  he, 
'Tibbie',  says  he,  'what  ails  ye,  lass,  that  the  folk  are  a- 
speerin'  at  ye  ? '  Says  I,  burstin'  oot  laughin',  —  seein' 
the  eyes  o'  all  glistenin'  aboot  me,  —  says  I,  'Wully, 
ye  daft  laddie,  they  're  a-speerin'  at  ye.  Dinna  ye  see 
ye  're  a  show  ? '  An'  never  could  Bell  McKenzie 
nor  me  get  him  oot  agin,  till  he  war  all  rigged  out 
anew." 

Johnny  McPhail  laughed.  "  The  last  time  I  saw 
Wully,"  said  he,  "  was  in  Glasgow,  where  he  was 
a-stayin'  wi'  the  Maxwells  a  week  or  twa  before  sailin', 
and  Tarn  Maxwell  was  jeerin'  at  him  for  always  a- 
sayin'  tae  everything,  '  Dae  it  as  unto  the  Lord ; ' 
an'  he  was  that  afeared  o'  the  City  o'  Sin,  as  he 
cal'd  Glasgow,  that  he  always  went  aboot  wi'  his 
Bible  in  his  hand.  '  Will  ye  gae  tae  the  theatre  ? ' 


Inside  our  Gate.  197 

Tarn  asket  him  one  night.  Says  he  quite  simple 
like,  'Can  I  dae  it  as  unto  the  Lord?'" 

But  Tibbie  would  n't  laugh  now.  "  There  is  a 
queerness,"  said  she,  shaking  her  head,  "  that  we  a' 
should  follow  after,  instead  o'  laughin'  at  them  that 
has  it." 

Here  Douglas,  who  felt  that  a  blight  had  fallen  upon 
the  merry  talk,  asked  "  Mister  McPhail "  if  he  could 
dance  a  Highland  fling;  and  that  caused  Johnny  to 
describe  the  Caledonian  games,  and  then  he  promised 
to  come  out  some  time  and  bring  a  pair  of  stilts  for 
Douglas.  Then,  alas,  Johnny  McPhail  had  to  go  away 
too  ! 

One  Sunday  afternoon  Douglas  was  sitting  in  the 
study  with  me,  and  on  his  feet  were  fastened  his  new 
skates,  which,  although  it  was  now  Summer,  had  just 
been  given  him,  at  his  special  request,  for  a  birthday 
present.  We  were  conversing  on  two  subjects,  —  he 
on  one  and  I  on  the  other. 

"This  is  the  road  the  conquerors  took  when  they 
came  into  Babylon,  Douglas,"  said  I,  pointing  to  a 
crooked  red  line  on  the  map  spread  before  us. 

"  Can  you  tell  the  new  engine  by  its  whistle, 
mother?"  said  he. 

"  No,  my  dear ;   and  here  is  the  —  " 

"  Why,  mother  !  can't  you  ?     It  is  just  as  easy  \  it 


198  Inside  our  Gate. 

gives  three  little  toots  and  then  a  whistle.  Did  n't  you 
know  which  engines  went  by  the  church,  this  morning, 
—  the  Tilly  West  and  the  North  End?" 

"  Well,  we  '11  talk  about  the  engines  by  and  by.  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  now  about  the  wonderful  hanging 
gardens  of  Babylon.  Right  in  there  —  " 

"  The  name  of  the  new  engine  is  the  Raven's 
Head,"  said  Douglas.  "  You  've  noticed  how  much 
larger  it  is  than  the  North  End,  haven't  you?" 

"  I  did  n't  know  they  had  a  new  engine,"  I  said. 
"  Now,  right  here  —  " 

"  Why,  it  was  put  on  last  Thursday !  You  went  in 
with  it !  What  engine  did  you  think  you  went  in 
with?" 

"  I  did  n't  know.  I  don't  know  any  of  the  engines 
by  the  whistles,"  I  had  to  admit.  "  Now,  these  gardens 
were  one  of  the  Seven  —  " 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  learn  them,"  said  Douglas. 

"  Douglas,"  said  I,  "  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  map 
and  pay  attention.  Do  you  see  this  line  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  Well,  that  is  where  the  conquerors  came  —  " 

"  I  learned  them  all  in  one  day,"  said  Douglas ; 
"  so  could  you  if  you  tried.  Every  time  one  whistled 
at  the  station,  I  ran  to  the  corner  to  see  its  name, 
and—" 


Inside  our  Gate.  199 

Suddenly  a  change  came  upon  Douglas's  face,  as  he 
looked  out  at  the  open  window. 

"  A  whole  lot  of  Tibbie's  Scotchmen  !  " 

Sure  enough  !  five  brawny  Scotchmen  were  coming 
in  at  the  gate.  Tibbie  too  had  spied  them  as  they 
turned  to  the  kitchen  piazza. 

"  Tarn,  is  it  ye  ?  " 

"  It 's  me,  Tibbie,  lass  ;  hoo  are  ye  ?  " 

"  Where  's  me  marmalade  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  frae  Scotland  at  a'.  I  'm  just  frae 
Injy." 

"  Why  didna  ye  fetch  Bell  Mackim  along  ?  " 

Then  their  voices  were  lost  in  the  kitchen. 

Presently  Tibbie  appeared  at  my  door  all  radiant. 
"  Mrs.  Burroughs,"  she  cried,  "  sax  great  Scotchmen 
frae  Injy,  and  what '11  I  dae  wi'  'em?  Not  one  soul 
o'  'em  hae  I  seen  for  four  years  !  " 

"  Ask  them  to  take  tea  with  you  if  you  wish  to," 
said  I,  "  if  you  've  got  enough  for  a  bite  about." 

"  Oh,  let  me  take  tea  with  them  too,"  cried 
Douglas.  "  Tibbie,  can't  I  ?  I  'm  more  'n  half  Scotch, 
and  my  name  's  Scotch,  and  I  know  about  Burns, 
Tibbie." 

"Of  course  ye  can,  if  your  mither '11  lat  ye,"  said 
Tibbie. 

"  You  'd  better  let  Tibbie  have  her  company  to  her 


2OO  Inside  our  Gate. 

self  at  tea,"  said  I ;  "  but  you  and  Elinor  may  see 
them  while  she  is  getting  tea  for  us." 

"  And  take  Scott  too,"  cried  Douglas.  "  I  guess 
they  '11  think  we  are  all  right  if  we  have  a  Scotch 
dog." 

At  the  eager  sound  of  Douglas's  voice  Elinor  had 
run  in  from  the  nursery.  She  finally  took  in  the  situa 
tion.  "  Oh,  put  on  my  plaid  dress  to  please  Tibbie's 
Scotchmen,"  she  cried ;  "  and  I  '11  go  down  and  say 
'guid-by'  to  them." 

"  You  must  n't  say  that.  You  must  say  '  Guid-day ' 
to  them,"  said  Douglas,  in  a  superior  way. 

Tibbie  was  well  pleased  that  her  guests  were  so 
satisfactory.  "  I  '11  just  boil  a  pot  o'  potatoes  and  boil 
eggs  and  beat  up  a  bowl  of  pease-brose  and  mak'  a 
cup  o'  coffee,"  said  she,  beaming,  "  an'  many  thanks, 
Mistress  Burroughs." 

Elinor's  plaid  dress  was  now  on.  Scott  was  on  the 
alert  to  see  his  countrymen,  and  the  children  followed 
Tibbie  downstairs. 

"  Ho  !  "  cried  a  man's  voice  as  the  procession  en 
tered  the  kitchen,  "  here  are  twa  laddies  an'  a  collie- 
dug." 

"  I  'm  not  a  laddie,"  said  Elinor ;  "  I  'm  a  lassie. 
Tibbie  says  I  'm  a  Lowland  lass  because  I  eat  pease- 
brose  for  my  breakfast." 


Inside  our  Gate.  201 

"  An'  sae  ye  are,"  replied  Tibbie ;  "  an'  noo  stan'  up 
an'  say  '  Wully  Wunkie '  for  'em." 

Tibbie  was  still  excited  when  evening  came  and  the 
party  of  friends  had  departed.  "Oh,  Mistress  Bur 
roughs,"  said  she,  "  when  we  sat  to  the  table  not  one 
o'  'em  wad  say  grace,  sae  I  just  repeated  Burns's 
blessin'  a-standin',  while  a'  o'  them  held  up  their  right 
han's.  Ye  ken  the  blessin'  ?  — 

" '  Some  hae  meat  an'  canna  eat ; 

An'  some  wad  eat  that  want  it. 
But  we  hae  meat  an'  we  can  eat, 
An'  sae  the  Lord  be  thankit.' 

An'  there  was  one  o'  the  men  I  wish  ye  had  seen,  — 
Hugh  McGrigor  —  "  Herein  her  excitement  Tibbie 
fell  into  "  Glasky  "  full  and  free.  "  His  mither  was 
neebor  tae  my  mither ;  an'  we  an'  the  McGrigors  ran 
thegither  whiles  we  was  children.  She  was  a  widow 
woman,  an'  had  reared  four  sons,  an'  a'  was  married 
an'  set  up  for  themselves  but  Hugh,  an'  he  stuck  tae 
his  mither  and  give  her  his  pay  every  Saturday  nicht. 
She  went  mendin',  an'  often  she  gaed  out  wi'  her 
griddle  a-cookin'  cakies.  Oh,  oft  tae  our  hoose  I  've 
heard  her  tell  o'  Hughie's  guidness  tae  her,  never 
bringin'  a  bit  o'  a  lass  to  be  set  over  her  heid ;  an' 
she  'd  allays  end  up  wi',  '  Hughie's  mither  '11  be  his 
fortin'  yet.' 


2O2  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  Well,  twa  years  ago  Mistress  McGrigor  cam'  hur- 
ryin'  to  Mistress  Calders  wi'  a  lawyer's  letter.  It  was 
to  tell  the  wull  of  her  old  cousin  Peter  Frazer,  who  had 
gone  to  Melbourne  when  he  was  just  a  bit  laddie,  an' 
had  never  been  back  to  Scotland,  though  he  were 
always  a-comin'.  Well,  he  had  died  at  ninety-two 
year  old,  leavin'  a  fortin'  o'  one  thousand  pound  to 
Mistress  McGrigor.  But,"  said  Tibbie,  "  the  strangest 
part  o'  the  wull  was  this.  Says  it,  '  She  maun  build  a 
cot  wi'  part  o'  the  money  by  our  auld  home  by  the 
river  Clyde  whar  the  salmon  rise.'  Noo,"  said  Tibbie, 
with  wide-open  eyes,  and  speaking  slowly,  "  never, 
wi'in  memory  o'  the  auldest  body  we  knew,  had  the 
salmon  rose  in  the  river  Clyde.  There  war  no  cots 
then,  but  just  wharfs  and  quays  and  ships  and  blocks 
o'  houses  thick,  and  the  water  was  that  filthy  and  full 
o'  pisen  that  if  a  man  droppet  in  the  Clyde  by  acci 
dent  an'  got  a  mouthful  o'  't  it  was  his  sure  death. 

"Poor  auld  body,"  continued  Tibbie,  shaking  her 
head,  "an1  he  a-thinkin'  for  seventy  long  year  may 
hap  o'  the  home  cot  by  the  river  Clyde  whar  the  sal 
mon  rise,  an'  it  all  wipet  oot  clean  off  the  face  o'  the 
earth.  The  Lord  deliver  us  frae  buildin*  oor  eternal 
hopes  on  a  like  false  foundation  ! " 


X. 


"\T  7ITH  Mary  Shannon  came  Irish  songs  and 
*  "  stories.  For  a  little  time  Tibbie's  Scotch 
tales  were  not  called  for.  There  was  Mary's  visit  to 
her  old  aunts,  Aunt  Bridget  and  Aunt  Mitty,  who  lived 
in  a  little  stone  farm-house  all  whitewashed  like  snow, 
and  made  lovely  by  vines  of  pink  roses  which  ran  over 
the  thatched  roof  and  just  peeped  into  the  bedroom 
window,  "  a-noddin'  to  ye  in  the  mornin',  them  roses." 
And  this  was  only  the  starting-point  for  the  story  of  an 
old  donkey  that  went  every  morning  "  to  the  gentle 
man's  place,"  dragging  a  little  cart  loaded  with  milk- 
cans,  and  accompanied  only  by  a  blind  dog  who,  if 
the  gate  chanced  to  be  shut,  would  bark  till  one  of 
the  maids  heard  him  and  came  to  open  it.  Then 
there  were  eggs  to  be  found  and  counted,  and  sold  at 
the  great  house.  "  Oh,  that  was  a  fine  house,  Douglas 
dear,"  said  Mary,  proudly,  "with  a  winder  in  it  for 
every  day  in  the  year  ! " 

Then  there  was  the  sea-wall  where  Mary  used  to 
sit  and  watch  the  "white  birds  flittin'  and   the   sun 


204  Inside  our  Gate. 

dancin'  on  the  waves,"  while  she  knit  long  gray-wool 
stockings.  And  the  wonderful  taste  of  the  potatoes 
that  Aunt  Mitty  roasted  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth  ! 
"  Oh,  that  was  a  taste  like  none  other,  Douglas  dear  !  " 
And  there  was  a  fine  merry  little  cricket  in  a  black 
jacket  —  Mary  told  it  as  if  this  special  cricket  had 
donned  a  black  jacket  to  call  on  her  and  her  aunts, 
—  that  lived  somewhere  in  a  crack  in  the  hearth,  and 
came  out  at  dusk  and  piped  for  them  in  the  firelight. 

But  the  tale  that  pleased  little  Elinor  most  ("Such  a 
pitiful  story,"  she  said)  was  of  a  little  lamb  in  Aunt 
Mitty's  flock  that  did  not  know  its  mother  "after 
she  came  up  from  the  shearin',  with  her  beautiful  wool 
all  gone.  While  the  shepherd  was  washin'  the  sheep 
in  the  brook,  the  little  lammie  bleated  on  the  shore 
for  its  mother ;  but  when  the  poor  mother  wanted  to 
get  to  her  lammie  and  nurse  it,  the  bit  lammie  ran 
away  in  fear.  It  went  hungry  all  day,  just  bleatin' 
and  bleatin' ;  but  mind  ye,"  —  here  the  children  would 
straighten  up  and  open  their  eyes  wide,  —  "  mind  ye, 
when  the  dark  night  came  and  the  lammie  could  not 
see  the  changed  look  of  his  mother,  but  only  just 
heard  the  kind  voice  of  her,  oh  !  he  knew  her  voice 
well,  and  just  fled  to  her  and  lay  by  her,  cuddlin',  and 
got  his  sweet  supper  and  slept  all  night  by  her  in 
peace." 


Inside  our  Gate.  205 

"  I  'm  so  glad  the  little  lamb  knew  his  mother  at 
last,"  said  little  Elinor.  "  When  I  go  there  to  your 
aunts,  Mary,  I  shall  pat  that  little  lamb  and  give  him 
clover  and  salt.  Do  you  think  he  will  like  me?" 

Mary  was  sure  he  would,  and  if  he  had  grown,  as 
perhaps  he  had  by  this  time,  big  and  rough,  there 
would  be  another  little  one  like  him  to  frisk  in  the 
field  with  her. 

Then  there  were  new  songs,  —  new  to  the  children : 
"  Oh,  dear,  what  can  the  matter  be ; "  and 

"  On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheilah  was  nigh, 
No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I ;  " 

and 

"  When  Pat  came  o'er  the  hill, 

He  whistled  loud  and  shrill ;  " 
and 

"  She  milked  the  dun  cow, 
That  ne'er  offered  to  stir  ; 

Though  cross  't  was  to  others,  't  was  gentle  to  her, 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  Kathleen  O' Moore." 

Douglas  made  me  bring  from  the  sacred  recesses 
of  the  family  treasury  a  tall  silver  porringer,  with  the 
name  of  an  Irish  ancestor  engraved  upon  it, —  Maurice 
O'Neil,  —  the  Paul  Revere  spoons  bearing  the  initials 
of  later  generations  of  O'Neils,  with  the  greenish-golden 
satin  vest  and  breeches  of  one  of  the  great-grand 
fathers,  and  a  set  of  silver  buckles  studded  with  bril- 


206  Inside  our  Gate. 

liants.  Mary  looked  admiringly  at  the  relics,  and 
Douglas  said,  "  Mary,  very  likely  I  am  a  relative  of 
yours ;  perhaps  my  great-great-grandfather  has  called 
on  your  aunts,  and  seen  the  donkey  and  the  blind 
dog." 

The  ballad  of  "  The  Sailor  Boy  "  made  a  deep  im 
pression  on  Douglas.  He  suggested  learning  it  to  re 
peat  in  Sunday-school,  the  only  appropriateness  con 
sisting  evidently  in  its  "telling  about  a  dead  sailor." 
Here  it  is  just  as  Mary  used  to  sing  it :  — 

THE   SAILOR   BOY. 

"  EARLY,  early  in  the  Spring, 
My  love  Willy  went  to  serve  the  king ; 
The  raging  seas  and  the  wind  blew  high, 
Which  parted  me  and  my  sailor  b'y. 

"  Father,  father,  make  me  a  boat, 
That  on  the  ocean  I  may  float  1 
And  every  ship  that  will  pass  by, 
I  will  inquire  for  my  sailor  b'y." 

This  lady  had  not  gone  far, 
Until  she  met  with  a  man-of-war, 
Saying,  "  Captain,  captain,  tell  me  true, 
If  my  love  Willy  's  on  board  of  you." 

"What  color  of  clothes  does  your  Willy  wear? 

And  what's  the  color  of  your  sailor's  hair?" 
"  His  hair  was  light  and  his  jacket  blue  ; 

It 's  easily  known  that  his  heart  was  true." 


Inside  our  Gate.  207 

"  I  fear,  great  lady,  your  Willy  is  gone  ; 
I  fear,  great  lady,  your  sailor  is  drowned. 
From  yon  green  island  as  we  passed  by 
We  lost  nine  more  and  your  sailor  b'y." 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  tore  her  hair, 

Like  one  distracted  in  despair, 

Saying,  "  How  can  I  live  when  my  Willy  's  gone  ? 

How  can  I  live  with  my  sailor  drowned?  " 

She  threw  her  boat  against  the  rocks, 
Saying,  "  Captain,  captain,  dress  in  black, 
And,  all  you  sailors,  come  do  the  same, 
From  the  cabin  back  to  the  mainmast  high. 
Come  mourn  with  me  for  my  sailor  b'y ; 
Come  mourn  with  me  for  my  sailor  b'y ; 
Come  mourn  with  me  for  my  sailor  b'y." 


XI. 

town  where  Allan  was  born  was  to  have  a 
-L  centennial  celebration,  and  we  decided  to  at 
tend  it.  Then  came  an  invitation  to  Allan  to  make 
an  address  on  the  second  day  of  the  festivities.  Of 
course  I  wanted  to  hear  that,  even  after  he  had  read 
it  through  to  me  six  times.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
other  people  would  look  when  he  read  it  to  them. 

Allan's  immediate  family  had  gone  from  the  town 
years  before,  but  he  still  had  a  few  distant  relatives 
there.  Madam  Granger  was  his  great-aunt,  and  the 
Morris  family  were  his  second  cousins. 

We  meant  to  stay  at  the  hotel  and  have  a  free, 
pleasant  time  by  ourselves,  but  when  I  received  a  note 
from  Miss  Theresa  Morris,  who  lived  with  Madam 
Granger,  saying  that  her  aunt  wanted  to  receive  Allan 
and  me  as  her  guests,  we  were  very  glad  to  accept 
the  invitation.  She  bid  Miss  Morris  say  that  she  was 
very  anxious  to  see  me  ;  she  had  heard  such  agreeable 
accounts  of  Allan's  wife.  This  was  pleasant,  for  the 
poor  old  lady  had  seen  me  only  a  few  years  before, 


Inside  our  Gate.  209 

when  Allan  and  I  were  her  guests  for  a  day  or  two,  — 
and  now  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it ! 

Madam  Granger  lived  in  a  beautiful  old  place,  with 
a  splendid  park  and  a  smooth  lawn,  which  stretched 
down  to  a  lake,  wide  and  beautiful,  with  one  side 
thickly  wooded,  while  on  the  other  side,  as  far  as  you 
could  see,  were  green  fields  dotted  with  lovely  homes. 
That  lake  was  famed  in  history  and  romance,  and 
haunted  by  spirits  brave  and  bold.  When  you  called 
them  they  would  answer,  loud  and  merrily  as  Robin 
Hood;  but  they  fled  as  they  answered,  for  the  last 
sound  was  but  a  whispered  echo. 

The  old  lady  of  the  mansion  lived  in  a  spacious  room 
on  the  first  floor  looking  toward  the  lake.  She  con 
stantly  inhabited  that  room  and  the  parlor  adjoining  it. 
Old  Madam  Fortesque  I  always  thought  of,  as  she 
sat  straight  up  in  her  chair  in  a  black  silk  gown,  and 
with  a  white  lace  cap  with  long  tabs  over  her  shoulders. 
Though  she  was  so  old,  her  head  was  very  clear,  and 
she  had  a  soft  pink  lingering  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
hair  waved  in  little  natural  curls  round  her  forehead. 

I  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  as  she  sat  in 
her  Summer  parlor,  erect  and  stately  to  receive  me, 
in  her  lap  a  big  white  ostrich-feather  fan  ;  and  that 
Miss  Agatha  Morris,  a  niece  who  then  lived  with  her, 
after  we  had  eaten  a  dainty  little  lunch  with  "  Madam 


2io  Inside  oiir  Gate. 

Aunt,"  as  she  called  her,  showed  me  over  the  house, 
and  I  saw  the  beautiful  old  china  cups  from  which 
Washington  and  Lafayette  had  drunk,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  cut  glass,  and  the  dark  parlors  with  furni 
ture  all  in  linen  covers.  When  the  maid  opened  the 
shutters  to  show  me  Madam  Granger's  portrait  at 
seventeen,  it  made  the  room  look  drearier  than  be 
fore,  —  this  sudden  stream  of  sunlight.  It  was  strange 
to  look  at  this  beauty  standing  life-size  in  all  the 
bravery  of  youth,  with  blue  sky  behind  her  and  a 
Spring  landscape,  and  she  in  white,  and  then  to  cross 
the  chill,  wide  hall,  with  its  dark  old  portraits,  and  see 
the  same  woman  old,  stately  (eighty-five  then),  sitting 
in  an  easy-chair  with  a  cane  at  hand,  —  and  to  believe 
that  they  could  be  the  same. 

In  looking  at  such  a  marvellous  change  in  this  short 
life,  it  does  not  appear  so  strange  a  thing  that  these 
souls  of  ours  shall  some  day  possess  other  bodies,  their 
own,  and  yet  celestial,  —  for  in  that  glorious  change 
we  shall  pass  into  the  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

Allan  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  study  together  one 
evening.  "  Oh,  dear,"  said  I,  "  I  do  want  to  go  to 
Moorlands,  but  I  don't  want  to  go  and  feel  uneasy 
about  the  children.  I  'd  rather  stay  at  home  than  do 
that.  Oh,  for  a  woman  relative,  a  maiden  aunt,  an 
unmarried  sister  ! " 


Inside  our  Gate.  211 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  May?"  asked  Allan. 
"  She  's  coming  here  soon  for  a  visit,  anyway,  and 
she  'd  let  you  off  for  two  days,  I  know.  She  was  n't 
born  in  that  town,  and  won't  care  to  go  herself." 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  thought !  "  said  I.  "  I  '11  write 
to  her  this  minute ;  and  if  she  will  come  now  I  '11  get 
everything  planned  so  that  the  house  will  run  itself  for 
those  days.  Mary  is  so  good  with  the  children,  and 
Tibbie  will  attend  to  everything  downstairs." 

I  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  to  my  husband's  sister 
May,  who  was  visiting  her  sister,  Mrs.  Weston,  in 
Northfield.  She  came  once  a  year  from  Delaware,  and 
I  knew  she  'd  help  me  out  if  she  could. 

In  a  few  days  her  answer  came.  She  would  gladly 
come,  she  said ;  but  she  would  have  to  bring  her  Willy 
with  her,  and  Gracie  Weston  would  have  to  come  too 
to  show  her  the  way,  for  she  always  got  bewildered  in 
New  York. 

This  was  delightful.  If  Gracie  came,  May  would  not 
be  lonely ;  but  how  about  the  night  in  this  big 
country  house  ?  My  relatives  might  be  timid,  though  I 
had  written  that  Scott  was  an  able  defender.  Why 
not  write  to  my  brother  Maurice  ?  He  'd  come  out  to 
oblige  me,  I  knew,  for  one  night.  So  I  wrote  to  him, 
and  he  replied  that  he  would  come  ;  that  he  was  glad 
it  was  Wednesday  night,  for  he  had  promised  Tom 


212  Inside  our  Gate. 

(another  brother  of  mine)  to  stay  with  his  family  while 
he  was  in  St.  Louis ;  and  that  Tom  was  not  to  be  home 
till  Wednesday  night. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  said  to  Allan  that  night,  "  there  is  noth 
ing  that  cannot  be  arranged,  if  people  will  only  take 
hold  of  things  in  the  right  time  and  place.  I  hate  that 
talk  of  being  ruled  by  circumstances.  How  beautifully 
everything  is  working !  My  new  bonnet  came  home 
too ;  and  it  is  a  beauty." 

That  night  Mary  came  upstairs  to  say  that  her 
sister  in  the  city  was  very  ill,  and  they  had  sent  for 
her  to  take  care  of  her. 

"  I  '11  have  to  go,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  very  sorry,  but 
I  '11  go  and  get  that  young  American  girl,  Miranda, 
who  is  going  to  leave  Mrs.  Thompson  to-morrow, 
and  I  '11  stay  and  show  her  about  everything  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Never  mind,  Molly,  don't  get  down-hearted ;  you 
shall  go,"  said  Allan.  "  May  and  Grace  can  put  the 
children  to  bed  and  see  that  they  are  dressed,  for  one 
day,  and  the  new  girl  can  make  beds  and  manage  for 
two  days  surely." 

Miranda  came ;  and  the  next  morning  began  the 
day  when  my  sister-in-law  was  to  come.  On  that 
morning,  at  gray  dawn,  came  Miranda  to  my  door, 
to  say  that  Tibbie  was  very  sick  and  could  n't  get 


Inside  our  Gate.  213 

up.  I  hurried  to  her  room.  She  looked  white  and 
suffering. 

"  Why,  Tibbie,  what  is  the  matter?  "  I  cried. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Tibbie,  "but  that  I've  an 
awfu'  pain  in  my  side,  and  a  beatin'  sair  heid.  Oh, 
I  don't  know  what  ails  me  ! " 

"  Did  you  feel  sick  yesterday,  Tibbie?  " 

"  Well,  I  did  i'  th'  afternoon." 

"  How  do  you  feel  sick? " 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  blood  has  been  pourin'  frae 
my  mouth." 

I  saw  that  she  was  very  sick  and  sent  for  a  doc 
tor.  When  he  came  he  asked  Tibbie  countless 
questions,  and  found  out  nothing  as  to  the  cause 
of  her  illness,  but  left  her  something  that  he  hoped 
would  relieve  her.  After  he  had  been  gone  some 
time,  she  sent  for  me  to  tell  me  that  she  had  just 
thought  that  perhaps  the  falling  downstairs  "  had 
something  to  do  wi'  it."  It  seemed  that  she  had 
fallen  down  the  kitchen  stairs  the  day  before,  during 
my  absence  in  the  city.  This  was  the  first  I  had 
heard  of  it. 

She  said  that  Miranda  had  not  been  two  minutes  in 
the  house  before  she  knew  we  might  as  well  have 
dressed  up  a  broomstick  and  stood  it  in  the  corner 
and  saved  our  money ;  that  after  I  was  gone  she  tried 


214  Inside  our  Gate. 

to  hurry  her  up  and  she  only  replied,  "  I  was  never 
born  to  kill  myself  workin'." 

"  An'  I  was  that  mad,"  said  Tibbie,  "  that  I  seized 
the  chair  I  wanted  her  to  carry  downstairs,  and  a 
lamp  and  a  pitcher,  and  I  flew  down  the  back  stairs 
and  just  tumbled  and  stuck  the  leg  o'  the  chair  into 
my  side,  an'  rolled  over  an'  bumpet  my  heid  on  the 
iron  leg  o'  the  mangle." 

"Oh,  Tibbie,"  I  cried,  "of  course  it  was  the  fall 
that  hurt  you.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  the  doctor  about 
it?" 

"  I  just  never  thought  o'  it." 

The  doctor  looked  grave  when  I  told  him  of  Tibbie's 
accident.  He  said  she  must  lie  still  certainly  for  a 
week. 

Good-by,  centennial ! 

That  afternoon  the  three  guests  arrived,  and  being 
relatives,  they  soon  heard  of  our  condition  and  at  once 
offered  to  "  help  out." 

"  Why,  you  shall  not  stay  at  home  ;  can't  you  send 
for  a  woman  for  the  day?  It 's  only  one  night  you  are 
to  be  gone  ;  and  surely  Miranda  can  manage  to  do  the 
rest,  and  Grace  and  I  will  take  care  of  Douglas  and 
Elinor,"  said  Auntie  May. 

So  I  began  to  think  I  might  go  to  the  "  centennial " 
after  all. 


Inside  our  Gate.  215 

"  If  Tibbie  is  in  bed  no  one  will  remember  to  lock 
the  outside  cellar  door,"  said  Allan.  "  You  must  tell 
May  to  see  to  it." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  I  '11  do,"  said  I.  "  I  '11  write 
out  a  paper  for  Miranda,  to  tell  her  just  what  she 
must  do  about  locking  up  at  night ;  and  then  I  '11 

write  a  list  for  Maurice  so  that  he  can  see  that  she 

f 

does  all  these  things.  I  think  May  has  enough  to 
do  without  keeping  blinds  and  cellar  doors  on  her 
mind." 

Miranda's  list  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  Lock  cellar  door  and  shake  it  to  see  that  it  is  fast. 

"  Draw  in  the  blinds. 

"  See  that  three  fastenings  are  locked  on  every  window. 

"  Lock  two  inside  kitchen  doors. 

"  Lock  back-stairs  door. 

"  Bolt  front  and  back  hall  doors  and  lock  with  key. 

"  Take  pitcher  of  water  and  a  tumbler  to  each  room  at 
nine  o'clock. 

"  Set  a  pitcher  of  hot  water  at  each  bedroom  door  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  knock. 

"  See  that  the  night-lamp  is  not  turned  too  high  or 
too  low. 

"  Put  silver  in  Mr.  Maurice's  closet. 

"  Put  two  chairs  at  the  head  of  the  front  stairs,  fastened 
together  and  tied  to  the  banisters  [this  was  to  keep  Scott 
upstairs  with  the  family]  with  the  red  braid  in  the  black 
table-drawer,  —  the  little  top-drawer." 


216  Inside  our  Gate. 

Then  I  wrote  for  Maurice  :  — 

"  DEAR  MAURICE,  —  Miranda  is  new,  — that  is,  she  is 
new  to  me,  —  and  does  n't  know  the  ways  of  the  house. 
I  have  written  out  a  list  for  her.  I  -wish  you  would  see 
that  she  follows  my  instructions." 

Then  followed  my  instructions  in  this  wise  :  — 

"  See  that  front  and  back  hall  doors  have  been  locked 
and  bolted. 

"Ask  Miranda  if  she  has  taken  a  pitcher  of  cold  water 
and  a  tumbler  to  each  room  at  night,  etc." 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  with  a  start.  It  was 
very  light,  and  alas  !  it  was  very  late.  I  could  not  hear 
a  sound  about  the  house,  so  I  hurried  on  my  wrapper 
and  went  to  the  servants'  room.  Miranda  was  still 
in  bed. 

"  Why,  Miranda,  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  groaned,  "I  Ve  such  a  sick  headache 
that  I  can't  stand  up.  I  've  tried  twice,  and  I  am  so 
dizzy  I  can't  see." 

I  turned  and  saw  Tibbie  putting  on  her  stockings. 
I  had  to  order  her  back  to  bed.  I  'd  rather  have 
Tibbie  though  sick  than  a  dozen  Mirandas  in  good 
health.  I  went  back  to  my  room. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Allan,"  I  said,  "  you  must  flee  down 


Inside  our  Gate.  217 

and  make  a  kitchen  fire  while  I  dress  Elinor  and 
myself." 

I  sent  Douglas  for  Maggie  Wylie,  and  had  breakfast 
half  ready  by  the  time  she  arrived.  This  looked  en 
couraging  for  the  "  centennial."  Three  guests,  two 
servants  sick  ! 

Allan  said  he  would  wait  till  morning  for  me ;  so 
we  rose  betimes  to  get  things  in  order  for  the  day. 
I  telegraphed  to  my  brother  that  I  had  decided  to  go 
to  Moorlands  only  for  one  day,  and  so  he  need  not 
come  out  for  a  night  as  he  had  promised. 

Maggie  Wylie  was  on  hand  again  to  get  breakfast 
and  attend  to  the  kitchen  generally.  I  had  engaged 
a  nurse  in  the  neighborhood  to  stay  for  the  day  too 
(for  Miranda  was  only  crawling  about  like  a  fly  on  a 
mild  day  in  March)  and  attend  to  Tibbie,  who  had 
to  have  medicine  and  hot  poultices  every  hour. 

After  breakfast  little  Douglas  called  me  into  the 
hall.  "  Mamma,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  bad  pain  in  my 
stomach.  You  won't  go  away  and  leave  me  with  a 
pain  in  my  stomach,  will  you,  mamma  ?  "  He  put  his 
arms  round  my  neck. 

"No,  my  dearie,"  said  I;  "but  you'll  be  all  well 
after  I  give  you  a  little  hot  peppermint."  But  he 
was  n't. 

As  it  came  on  toward  ten  o'clock,  I  told  Allan  I 


218  Inside  our  Gate. 

was  so  tired  that  I  felt  as  if  I  'd  just  returned  from  as 
sisting  at  the  original  settlement  of  Jamestown,  and 
that  he  would  have  to  go  alone.  He  saw  that  the 
thing  was  settled,  so  off  he  went. 

About  five  minutes  after  I  had  seen  him  go  down 
the  street,  I  heard  his  voice  in  the  dining-room.  I 
flew  downstairs ;  he  had  a  pair  of  driving  gloves  on, 
and  was  tinkering  at  the  stove. 

"  Miranda  ran  after  me  to  say  that  one  side  of  the 
stove  was  falling  down,"  he  said.  It  appeared  that 
she  had  tried  to  put  coal  in  through  an  ornamental 
door  instead  of  the  one  with  hinges  and  a  handle. 
One  look  at  his  watch,  and  off  flew  Allan.  And  thus 
it  was  that  I  failed  to  attend  the  centennial  celebration 
of  the  town  where  my  husband  was  born. 

Later  I  found  Tibbie  on  her  knees  in  the  kitchen 
clearing  out  the  stove  oven.  She  said  she  had  meant 
to  get  at  it  for  several  days,  and  now  that  we  had  extra 
help  in  the  house  she  thought  the  time  had  come.  In 
an  hour  from  that  time  we  had  to  send  for  the  doctor 
again,  and  she  was  sick  in  bed  for  a  month. 

On  Friday  I  got  a  note  from  my  brother  Maurice. 
He  said  that  when  the  town  where  Allan  was  born  had 
its  second  "  centennial,"  he  hoped  we  would  go,  if  at 
all,  without  planning  for  it  beforehand. 

He  continued :  — 


Inside  our  Gate.  219 

"After  getting  your  telegram  that  you  did  not  want 
me  on  Wednesday  night,  I  heard  at  Tom's  store  that  he 
was  not  expected  back  till  Thursday  night.  I  knew  they 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  at  the  house,  though  I  could 
not  go  early.  But  after  I  had  been  to  the  Marshalls'  to 
dine,  and  then  to  a  concert  with  Kitty  Marshall,  I  went 
uptown.  I  got  in  with  my  latch-key  and  crept  upstairs 
softly,  as  I  found  the  house  wrapped  in  slumber,  —  or  its 
inmates,  rather.  When  I  reached  my  room  and  lighted 
the  gas,  there  was  Tom  in  my  bed,  my  single  bed. 

"  We  had  a  laugh  when  I  punched  him  awake,  and 
he  left  the  bed  to  me  and  went  downstairs.  It  seems 
he  had  only  got  in  about  an  hour  before,  and  knowing  he 
was  unexpected,  had  crept  up  to  the  hall  room  to  avoid 
waking  the  children. 

"  When  he  reached  the  door  of  his  own  room,  he  softly 
turned  the  knob.  The  door  was  locked.  He  was  afraid  to 
make  a  noise  for  fear  of  waking  and  frightening  the  baby, 
so  he  dressed  himself  and  lay  on  the  parlor  sofa  all  night, 
with  a  camel's  hair  shawl  and  a  fur  rug  for  covering. 

"  In  the  morning  he  frightened  one  of  the  maids  almost 
out  of  her  wits,  as  she  turned  and  saw  him  asleep  after 
opening  the  parlor  blinds  ;  and  she  shrieked  and  flew  up 
stairs.  The  shriek  waked  Tom,  who  appeared,  wrapped 
in  his  shawl  like  Sitting  Bull  or  a  Roman  senator,  and 
explained  things  to  the  surprised  family.  Tom  sends 
love,  and  hopes  your  next  family  tidal  wave  won't  reach 
as  far  as  his  house." 

Allan  came  home  on  Thursday.  Madam  Granger 
had  been  so  touched  by  my  husband's  account  of  my 


220  Inside  our  Gate. 

disappointment  that  she  sent  me  by  express  a  Wedg 
wood  pitcher  over  a  hundred  years  old,  of  cream  color, 
with  dull  red  flowers  on  it,  and  also  two  tall  silver 
candlesticks  and  the  snuffer  and  tray.  Tom  thinks 
these  gifts  ought  to  belong  to  him;  but  I  surely 
needed  some  recompense  for  being  amiable  under 
such  trying  circumstances. 


XII. 

BEYOND  the  fields  on  which  our  windows  look  out 
is  a  fine  mansion-house,  of  which  we  only  get 
peeps  through  the  thick  foliage.  We  call  it  "  Major 
Lovejoy's  place,"  but  Douglas  calls  it  "  Jerry's  house." 
Jerry  works  for  the  major.  Though  Douglas  must 
know  better,  he  seems  to  think  that  his  friend  Jerry, 
whom  he  has  known  and  admired  ever  since  Elinor 
was  a  mere  baby,  owns  the  major,  the  house,  the 
horses,  and  the  whole  estate.  Jerry  is  his  dear  friend. 
Douglas  used  to  walk  up  the  road  and  talk  over  the 
fence  with  him  as  he  worked,  and  thus  the  friendship 
ripened.  If  his  heart  is  as  fair  as  his  face,  I  thought, 
he  may  well  be  trusted  with  my  boy.  He  is  sunburnt, 
of  course ;  but  you  see  that  his  forehead  is  white  when 
he  raises  his  cap  to  you.  His  hair  curls  all  over  his 
head,  and  his  teeth  are  white  and  even.  He  has  the 
most  charming  of  all  brogues,  —  a  Tipperary  brogue 
with  a  "whir"  and  a  roll. 

One  day,  early  in  the  acquaintance,  I  walked  up  the 
road  and  had  a  little  talk  with  Jerry.     I  told  him  how 


222  Inside  our  Gate. 

much  Douglas  liked  him  and  wished  to  be  with  him, 
and  asked  if  I  might  trust  my  boy  to  him  without  fear 
of  his  learning  anything  that  would  grieve  me. 

"  'Deed,  ma'am,"  said  Jerry,  earnestly,  "  ye  may 
trust  him  wid  me ;  I  '11  guard  him  like  a  mother." 

What  a  proud  boy  Douglas  was  when  he  got  on  the 
wagon,  and  with  Jerry  drove  jolting  to  the  lower  field  ! 
There  he  would  stand  in  the  wagon,  holding  the  reins, 
while  the  vegetables  were  loaded  in.  I  've  seen  him  sit 
at  one  side  of  the  field  for  an  hour,  watching  Jerry's 
cow,  —  he  who  could  n't  sit  still  for  ten  minutes  to 
learn  a  lesson.  I  sympathize  with  him.  It  is  pleas- 
anter  to  sit  on  a  fence  in  the  Summer  sunshine  and 
watch  a  friendly  cow  nibble  the  sweet  grass,  while  the 
birds  sing  and  the  butterflies  flit  through  the  air, 
than  to  stay  in  a  room  studying  the  multiplication- 
table. 

Douglas  never  failed  to  be  at  the  barn  at  milking- 
time,  for  Jerry  always  sang  as  he  milked.  I  told  him 
to  ask  Jerry  to  write  down  his  milking-song  for  me ; 
and  so  he  did,  with  a  lead  pencil  on  a  shingle  :  — 

"  Oh,  Granny  Gray,  let  down  your  milk! 
Your  horns  are  gold,  your  tail  is  silk ; 
Oh,  Granny  Gray,  let  down  your  milk, 
And  don't  be  boddering  me  1  " 

It  was  a  nice  little  song.     I  liked  it  too. 


Inside  our  Gate.  223 

One  day  Douglas  brought  home  a  fine  tale,  —  he 
and  Jerry  had  been  hunting ! 

"Hunting  what?" 

"  A  skunk  ! " 

"  How  did  you  hunt  it?  " 

"  Oh,  we  took  Jerry's  dog  Rover,  and  ran  all  round 
the  outside  of  the  barn ;  and  Rover  got  so  excited, 
and  barked  and  smelt  in  every  hole  under  the  barn 
and  sneezed,  and  would  not  go  into  the  hole,  no 
matter  how  much  we  '  sicked  '  him,  'cause  he  knew 
there  was  a  skunk  there  !  Was  n't  he  a  wise  dog  ? 
I  wouldn't  go  into  a  hole  .to  let  a  skunk  catch  me, 
would  you,  mother?  And,  mother,"  he  went  on, 
"Jerry  and  a  boy  that's  working  on  the  place  to 
day,  to  help  Jerry,  had  a  shooting-match.  I  tell  you 
Jerry  is  a  splendid  shot.  He  beat  that  boy  all 
hollow." 

"  Mercy,  Douglas  !  how  distressed  I  should  have 
been  if  I  had  known  there  was  any  shooting  there  ! " 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  Jerry  called  me  the  '  empire  ' 
to  see  which  beat;  and  he  set  me  on  top  of  the 
chicken-house  before  he  began  —  way  off  behind 
them." 

"  Well,  what  did  they  shoot,  —  skunks  or  sparrows? " 

"  Oh,  neither.  They  just  put  some  old  tomato-cans 
up  on  a  post  and  fired  at  them.  That  boy  could  n't 


224  Inside  our  Gate. 

hit  at  all,  but  Jerry  sent  the  can  flying  every  time.  I 
bet  —  I  mean  I  think  Jerry  would  make  a  splendid 
soldier ;  he 's  such  a  good  shot  and  so  brave  !  He 
says  he  'd  just  as  lief  walk  from  here  to  Greenland, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  all  alone." 

This  dog  Rover,  who  had  shown  so  much  discretion 
in  the  "  hunt,"  was  a  big  Newfoundland.  Besides  be 
ing  a  friend  of  Jerry  and  of  Douglas,  he  was  a  very 
dear  and  intimate  friend  of  the  cow.  When  she  was 
taken  for  the  day  into  the  lower  field  for  pasture,  Rover 
was  worried  and  uneasy,  and  every  little  while  would 
go  to  the  barn  and  peer  anxiously  in ;  but  when  she 
returned  at  night  it  was  wonderful  to  see  the  joyful 
meeting  of  the  two  friends.  Cows  are  generally  very 
much  afraid  of  dogs  when  they  have  calves,  but  when 
"Jinny's"  calf  arrived  she  showed  no  fear  of  Rover. 
She  let  him  come  freely  about  her  and  her  precious 
calf,  and  would  lick  first  one  and  then  the  other. 

Jerry 's  new  horses  were  the  finest  in  the  world, 
Douglas  thought,  and  as  for  Jerry's  uncle,  Douglas 
looked  on  him  with  a  sort  of  admiring  awe.  He 
looked  like  a  funny  Irish  Neptune  with  a  trident,  as 
he  sat  in  the  back  of  the  cart  with  a  pitchfork  in  his 
hands.  In  reality  he  was  a  kind  little  old  man  who 
lived  with  Jerry  at  Major  Lovejoy's,  and  helped  him 
on  the  farm ;  but  to  Douglas  he  was  the  rich  "  uncle 


Inside  our  Gate.  225 

from  India,"  for  Jerry  had  told  him  that  his  uncle  paid 
his  passage  out  for  him  when  he  was  a  lad. 

One  day  when  Douglas  had  been  describing  with 
deep  respect  the  wealth  of  Jerry's  uncle  and  his 
kindness  to  Jerry,  as  evidenced  that  day  by  digging 
potatoes,  I  said, — 

"What  is  his  business?  He  can't  have  any  if  he 
works  with  Jerry  all  the  time." 

"Oh,  he  only  comes  to  help  in  the  busy  season." 
"  What  is  his  business  when  he  is  at  home?  " 
"Well,"  said  little  Douglas,  screwing  up  his  fore 
head,  "  I  don 't  really  know ;  but  I  think  —  yes,  I  'm 
sure  —  that  he  is  a  broker." 

"Oh,  it  rains  so,"  said  little  Douglas  one  day,  "what 
can  I  do  !  I  'd  go  on  working  on  the  tea-kettle  holder, 
only  I  broke  my  worsted  needle  yesterday." 

"  I  have  n't  another  that  will  carry  that  thick 
worsted,"  I  said.  "Go  and  work  with  your  tools." 

A  few  minutes  afterward  Douglas  appeared  at  my 
chamber  door,  in  rubber  boots  and  overcoat,  with  a 
wet  umbrella  in  his  hand.  "  I  got  one,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  up  a  big  darning-needle  in  triumph.  "  Tibbie's 
wouldn't  hold  the  worsted,  and  Mary  had  only  fine 
ones ;  and  I  remembered  and  dashed  on  my  boots 
and  ran  up  the  road  to  the  field  where  Jerry's  uncle 


226  Inside  our  Gate. 

is  working,  —  he  does  n't  mind  rain,  — and  he  was  just 
singing  his  old  song  about 

'  Oh,  give  me  me  wattle, 
Me  work  is  nigh  done.' " 

"  He  does  n't  darn  his  stockings  in  the  field,  in  the 
rain,  does  he? "  I  asked.  "  I  know  few  brokers  do." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  No ;  but  he  carried  a  big  needle 
stuck  inside  his  coat  to  take  splinters  out  of  his  fingers 
the  days  they  were  mending  the  fence  along  Jerry's 
land,  and  I  just  thought  of  it  and  borrowed  it  of  him. 
He  was  very  polite.  I  told  him  if  I  lost  it  I  'd  buy 
him  another ;  and  would  n't  it  be  nice,  when  the  tea 
kettle  holder  is  done,  to  give  it  to  him,  because  he  was 
so  kind  to  lend  me  this?  " 

There  came  a  time  not  long  after  this  when  another 
side  of  Jerry's  character  was  revealed,  and  he  showed 
himself  able  to  serve  his  little  friend  in  other  ways  than 
in  directing  hunts  and  shooting-matches. 

One  morning,  during  the  time  when  the  children 
were  sick  with  scarlet  fever,  Jerry  called,  as  he  had 
often  done  before,  to  inquire  for  Douglas  and  Elinor. 
I  happendd  to  be  in  the  kitchen  when  he  came  in. 

"'Deed,  Mrs.  Burroughs,"  said  he,  "you're  looking 
quite  low  yourself,  ma'am." 

"  I  am  worn  out,  Jerry,"  said  I,  "  taking  care  of 


Inside  our  Gate.  227 

your  friend.  Douglas  has  taken  such  a  dislike  to  the 
nurse  that  he  can't  even  drink  water  she  has  brought 
to  him ;  and  while  he  is  sick  he  has  to  be  quieted  and 
given  his  own  way." 

"  An'  do  ye  take  all  the  care  o'  him  day  an'  night," 
asked  Jerry,  "  an'  look  after  the  little  girrl  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Mr.  Burroughs  and  I  divide  the 
nights.  We  don't  dare  to  trust  the  nurse  alone." 

"Dear  me!  Dear  me!"  said  Jerry.  "An1  can't 
Tibbie  give  ye  a  lift,  or  Carl?" 

"  No,  they  are  busy  all  the  time,  and  we  can't  get 
any  one  to  come  and  help  now;  everybody  is  afraid 
of  the  fever." 

"  I  'in  not  afraid  o'  it,"  said  Jerry,  "an'  I  've  a  room 
o'  me  own  over  the  stable  where  nobody  need  come 
with  me,  an'  the  major  an'  his  family  is  away  for  two 
months  ;  so  I  '11  just  come  down  for  a  bit  o'  the  night 
to  relieve  ye,  if  Douglas  would  put  up  wid  me,  and  ye 
could  get  a  wink  o'  slape  at  the  same  time." 

Sleep,  sleep  !  oh,  that  was  what  I  longed  for  !  It 
was  a  constant  struggle  to  keep  my  eyes  open. 

"May  I  go  up  an'  look  at  the  b'y  now?"  asked 
Jerry. 

Douglas  had  just  waked  from  uneasy  slumbers  and 
was  tossing  about  the  bed  when  we  went  in.  A  smile 
broke  over  his  face. 


228  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  Oh,  Jerry,"  he  said,  —  "  oh,  Jerry,  are  you  coming 
to  visit  me  ?  " 

"  Not  now,"  said  Jerry ;  "  but  if  ye  '11  be  a  good  b'y 
the  day,  I  '11  come  in  an'  walk  wid  ye  to-night.  I  '11 
walk  ye  up  an'  down  a-singin'  soft  in  your  ear.  How 
will  ye  like  that?" 

"  I  'd  like  that,  Jerry  ;  and  I  'd  let  you  give  me  my 
medicine  too,  besides  carrying  me,"  said  Douglas,  who 
had  come  to  think  it  a  favor  to  others  to  wait  upon 
him. 

"  'Deed,  will  ye  ?  "  said  Jerry,  accepting  the  offer  in 
the  spirit  in  which  it  was  made.  "  Well,  I  '11  be  gettin' 
proud  as  a  paycock  when  I  see  mesilf  puttin'  the  pills 
down  yer  neck.  Good-by,  now  ;  I  '11  be  round  about 
half-past  eight  o'clock." 

Up  and  down  the  long  nursery  I  could  hear  Jerry's 
firm  tread.  I  knew  little  Douglas  was  just  as  I  had 
left  him,  snuggled  up  in  his  arms,  warm  and  safe  and 
happy.  I  could  catch  now  and  then  the  refrain  of 
his  low  song,  — 

"  The  fill'  o'  the  house  o'  Irish  love 
Is  Mary  Ann  Malone." 

Elinor  was  sleeping  sweetly,  and  her  father  was 
watching  her.  I  fell  asleep  with  an  easier  heart  than 


Inside  our  Gate.  229 

I  had  had  for  many  a  day.     After  a  while  I  woke,  and 
now  the  words  of  the  song  ran,  — 

"  He  boddered  and  tazed  me, 
Yet  somehow  he  plazed  me, 
That  thrubblesome  Barney  O'Haye." 

I  could  not  hear  the  even  step  as  before,  so  I 
slipped  quietly  into  the  nursery.  Jerry  motioned 
me  away.  He  had  put  Douglas  in  his  bed,  and 
was  now  sitting  singing  softly  by  his  side. 

"  I  '11  call  ye  at  the  time  for  the  physic,"  he  said ; 
"till  then  slape  sound." 

I  crept  back  —  oh,  so  gladly  !  —  to  bed,  and  slept 
for  another  hour,  as  I  supposed.  Then  Jerry  roused 
me  by  tapping  at  the  door. 

"Ye  said,"  said  Jerry,  "ye  never  roused  him  to 
give  him  his  physic ;  an'  as  he  slep'  on,  I  let  ye  sleep 
on  likewise." 

"  What,  Jerry,  have  I  slept  the  whole  night  ?  Is  it 
morning?  " 

"  It  is  half-past  four  o'clock.  Good-by  to  ye,  ma'am. 
I  '11  be  back  to-night ;  I  'm  goin'  to  me  bed  now  for 
a  nap,  an'  then  I  '11  be  all  in  order  for  the  day." 

After  a  week  or  two  Douglas  began  to  improve 
rapidly.  He  could  sit  up  in  bed  in  his  little  blue- 
and-gray  wrapper,  and  look  over  the  pictures  in 
"Harper's  Weekly,"  and  cut  figures  from  paper 


230  Inside  our  Gate. 

with  his  round-pointed  scissors.  Still  Jerry  insisted 
on  coming,  and  how  gladly  I  allowed  it,  I  cannot 
tell.  My  ministering  angel  was  named  Jerry  Phelan, 
—  a  ministering  angel  with  a  rich  Irish  brogue  roll 
ing  out  through  smiles  and  white  teeth. 

In  one  of  George  McDonald's  stories  he  tells  of  a 
timid  little  orphan  who  was  forced  by  cruel  persons 
she  lived  with  to  sleep  in  a  lonely  garret  where  rats 
abounded.  The  child  heard  them  running  and  jump 
ing  about,  and  lay  in  an  agony  of  terror.  In  her  fear 
she  called  upon  God  for  help.  The  door  creaked, 
and  an  angel  appeared,  —  in  the  form  of  a  cat ;  the 
rats  ran  away,  and  she  slept  in  peace,  with  her  furry 
angel  lying  beside  her.  I  always  liked  that  little 
story.  I  only  wished  that  Jerry  had  a  twin  angel  to 
care  equally  well  for  Elinor. 

Elinor  had  her  antics  too.  She  would  n't  take  a  pill 
till  one  had  first  been  offered  to  the  engraving  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott  which  hung  in  her  room.  Simple  as  we 
felt  in  doing  it,  this  ceremony  had  to  be  gone  through 
with  every  time  we  gave  her  her  medicine.  I  had  to 
make  a  night-gown,  too,  for  a  woolly  white  lamb  that 
she  hugged  day  and  night,  —  "Elinor's  little  lamb," 
she  always  called  it.  We  always  had  to  sing,  "  Elinor 
had  a  little  lamb,"  or  she  at  once  wailed  aloud,  be 
lieving  that  some  unknown  Mary  had  appropriated  her 


Inside  our  Gale.  231 

beloved  lamb.  How  sharply  the  black,  shiny,  shoe- 
button  eyes  of  that  woolly  lamb  used  to  stare  at  me 
from  the  cradle  in  the  night-watches  !  "  Eternal  vig 
ilance  is  the  price  of  liberty,"  they  seemed  to  say. 

All  day,  Douglas  cut  papers  and  painted  the  pictures 
in  illustrated  periodicals.  We  had  piles  of  "  Harper's 
Weeklies"  in  the  attic,  —  an  accumulation  of  twelve 
years.  Douglas  and  Elinor  had  looked  them  through 
for  years;  but  they  were  always  fresh.  I  don't  see 
how  I  could  have  got  through  that  Winter  without 
them. 

Jerry  was  lost  in  amazement  at  the  productions  of 
Douglas's  paints  and  scissors.  He  went  away  every 
day  laden  with  brown-paper  donkeys,  and  goats,  and 
birds  of  Paradise  with  long  fringed  tails.  Every  night 
he  was  welcomed  with  joy  in  Douglas's  room,  after 
he  had  taken  a  comfortable  lunch  in  the  kitchen. 

"  'Deed,  Mrs.  Burroughs,"  said  Jerry  to  me  one 
night,  "  I  thought  I  'd  just  bust  for  fear  o'  laughin' 
last  night.  Douglas  told  me  a  fine  tale  of  what  a 
catcher  he  was  in  base-ball ;  and  he  said  the  first 
thing  he  was  going  to  buy  when  he  riz  up,  was  a 
base-ball  mask  and  a  stummick  protector,  —  an' 
him  lyin'  in  the  bed,  so  little  and  so  white  !  But 
he  has  a  fine  large  sovvl  in  him,  ma'am ;  days  when 
he  comes  to  see  me,  he  sits  on  the  fence  and  talks  o' 


232  Inside  our  Gate. 

base-ball,  an'  rolls  up  his  sleeves  to  show  me  uncle  and 
me  his  muscle.  Me  uncle  has  always  to  turn  away 
and  blow  his  nose  like  an  old  fish-horn,  to  kape  the 
laugh  in  him.  Me  uncle  is  quite  took  up  with  him 
too,  for  while  the  other  b'ys  about  calls  him  '  owld  man ' 
an'  '  Daddy  Phelan,'  Douglas  calls  him  '  Mr.  Phelan,' 
an'  has  promised  to  give  him  a  tay-kittle  howlder  that 
he  is  a-workin'  for  him.  One  time  he  was  a-tellin'  us 
about  the  wars  o'  England  an'  Scotland,  an'  about 
Robin  Hood,  an'  he  sung  us  a  fine  song  about  Robin 
Hood  an'  his  silver  horn.  Whin  me  uncle  heard  he 
was  sick,  says  he,  '  I  Ve  been  a-lookin'  for  it ;  that 's 
the  sort  that  dies  young.  His  mind  is  too  big  for  his 
body,'  says  he.  Now,  whin  I  told  him  the  b'y  was 
gittin'  better,  says  he,  '  Thin  he  's  to  be  spared  to  be 
one  o'  the  great  min  o'  the  world.'  Says  he,  '  I  knew 
a  man  whin  he  was  a  bit  o'  a  b'y,  who  come  to  be  an 
alderman  o'  New  York  City;  an'  Douglas  is  a  finer 
lad  now  nor  he  was  ! ' ' 

During  this  siege  of  scarlet  fever  I  had  an  odd 
specimen  of  a  nurse  from  Vermont,  —  the  nurse  whom 
Douglas  so  disliked.  Like  Tibbie's,  her  friends  were  the 
most  important  people  in  the  world.  Jonestown  was 
the  centre  of  the  universe  to  Miss  Dibbals,  as  his 
home  was  to  the  old  Scotchman  who  said,  "  Paris  is 
a  varra  fine  town  to  them  as  canna  bide  in  Peebles." 


Inside  our  Gate.  233 

Her  knowledge  of  New  York  was  gained  from  a 
visit  to  the  metropolis  when  she  came  down  to  the 
hospital  to  have  an  operation  performed  upon  one  of 
her  eyes.  She  had  lost  the  sight  of  this  eye  and  wore 
spectacles,  with  one  dark-blue  glass  and  one  empty 
frame  through  which  a  sharp  little  blue  eye  gleamed. 
Her  figure  was  gaunt,  and  her  hair  scant  and  sandy- 
colored.  She  had  "  a  voice  "  too,  —  a  queer,  cracked 
voice  full  of  quavers  and  wavers ;  and  as  she  always 
"  pitched  her  tune  "  on  her  highest  note,  the  high 
notes  of  the  song  were  only  a  shrill  squeak.  I  used 
to  wonder  how  the  baby  could  go  to  sleep  to  her 
lullaby  of,  — 

"  Oh,  come  my  pardner  in  distress, 
My  comfort  in  the  wilderness ; 
Oh,  come !  oh,  come  with  me, 
Where  pleasures  never  die-e-e-e  !  " 

Perhaps  the  baby  went  to  sleep  to  get  rid  of  it 

Miss  Dibbals  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the 
hospital  and  her  feelings  when  she  first  arrived  and  was 
shown  into  a  room  where  she  waited  for  fifteen  min 
utes,  while  a  black  child  with  weak  eyes  and  two 
cross-eyed  white  children  stood  in  a  row  and  stared 
at  her  in  silence.  I  derived  from  her  also  varied  in 
formation  about  the  "  octave  nerve  "  and  the  "  Irish 
of  the  eye." 


234  Inside  our  Gate. 

She  used  to  speak  with  pride  of  being  an  intimate 
friend  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Jones  of  Jonestown,  whose 
daughter  had  married  a  rich  German  gentleman  who 
drove  his  horses  "  tantrum,"  and  who  chose  to  live  in 
America  (in  Hoboken,  I  believe),  though  he  owned  the 
handsomest  place  in  Germany,  —  as  if  Germany  were 
only  another  Jonestown.  This  German  gentleman 
owned  a  brewery ;  but  he  brewed  a  kind  of  beer  that 
did  n't  make  people  drunk.  He  seemed  a  most  esti 
mable  person. 

Shut  in  as  we  were  for  the  time,  and  forced  to  be 
close  companions,  it  rather  amused  me  to  draw  her 
out  upon  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Jones  and  her  other  Jones 
town  friends.  "  Mrs.  Jones  is  one  of  the  Jones's,"  she 
said. 

She  had  another  friend,  Mrs.  Talbot,  who  had  just 
money  enough  to  live  on  if  she  saved  every  possible 
cent  and  dyed  her  shawl,  dresses,  and  feathers,  and 
whose  skill  in  this  art  and  mystery  was  so  great  that 
she  was  still  able  to  be  richly  and  fashionably  attired. 
Mrs.  Talbot  had  a  son,  Wesley,  who  was  big  and 
strong,  but  underwitted.  Still,  he  could  work  at  cut 
ting  wood  or  drawing  sand  and  the  like.  Once  Mrs. 
Talbot  had  an  invitation  to  go  to  Rutland  to  the  cattle- 
show,  and  for  weeks  she  exerted  herself  to  get  up  a 
suitable  wardrobe.  She  dyed  a  gray  shawl  a  beautiful 


Inside  our  Gate.  235 

magenta,  and  some  white  ribbon  the  very  same  shade 
for  her  bonnet,  and  mended  everything  and  put  new 
braid  on  her  dresses  ;  and  her  sister-in-law,  who  lived 
in  the  other  part  of  the  house,  pressed  the  shawl  till 
it  looked  like  new,  and  knit  her  some  edging  for  her 
collar,  so  that  altogether  her  wardrobe  was  a  success. 

The  money  for  the  journey  had  been  earned  by  Wes 
ley  by  a  week's  work  at  Mr.  Giles's  wood-pile,  the  only 
trouble  being  that  Mr.  Giles  was  "  slow  pay."  Still,  as 
Wesley  knew  that  he  must  bring  home  that  three  dollars 
and  a  half  on  Wednesday  night  if  he  wanted  five  cents 
for  peanuts,  it  was  believed  that  he  would  dun  Mr. 
Giles  at  short  intervals  all  day. 

What  was  Mrs.  Talbot's  horror  when  Wesley  came 
rushing  into  the  house  on  his  return  from  work,  beam 
ing  with  joy  and  excitement,  to  show  her  a  Waterbury 
watch  which  Mr.  Giles  had  given  him  in  payment  for 
his  work.  She  told  him  he  should  have  no  five  cents 
for  peanuts  ;  but  he  only  paused  long  enough  in  wind 
ing  up  his  watch  to  slap  his  pocket,  which  was  reso 
nant  with  peanut-shells.  He  had  confided  all  his  affairs 
to  Mr.  Giles,  who  had  given  him  five  cents  to  boot. 
"  There  was  nothin'  to  be  done,"  said  Miss  Dibbals, 
"  but  jest  to  unpack  and  stay  to  home.  She  could  n't 
raise  three  dollars  and  a  half  that  night." 

"Why  didn't  her  sister-in-law  lend  it  to  her?"  I 


236  Inside  our  Gate. 

asked.  It  seemed  to  me  I  could  n't  have  her  lose  that 
visit. 

"  Why,  she  was  jest  as  hard  up  as  Maria  Talbot 
was,  —  plenty  to  eat  but  very  little  ready  money ;  and 
besides,  she  had  lent  her  two  dollars  that  she  'd  laid  by 
for  Spring,"  rejoined  Miss  Dibbals,  rather  tartly,  as  if  I 
had  insinuated  that  the  sister-in-law  was  stingy. 

"  She  felt  awful  about  it,"  continued  Miss  Dibbals. 
"  She  said  she  could  hardly  stand  it  to  see  Wesley  set  all 
evenin'  windin'  and  windin'  and  windin'  that  watch  and 
crackin'  and  crackin'  on  them  nuts ;  she  had  worked 
so  hard  to  get  ready,  and  she  had  n't  been  away  out 
of  town  for  twelve  years.  This  place  she  was  goin'  to 
visit  in  Rutland  was  where  a  cousin  of  hers  lived  that 
colored  photographs  and  had  jest  got  married  to  a  man 
that  kep'  a  boardin'-house  there  ;  and  she  was  expectin' 
a  real  lively  time,  for  the  folks  that  had  side-shows 
boarded  to  this  house,  and  always  give  'em  free  tickets, 
and  it  was  right  across  the  street  from  the  show 
grounds.  But  she  jest  had  to  unpack  and  stay  to 
home." 

"  But  why  in  the  world  did  n't  she  take  the  watch 
back  and  make  the  man  give  her  the  money?" 

"  She  might  'a'  done  that,  only  she  was  too  quick- 
spoken  and  told  Wesley  that  she  was  goin'  to,  and  he 
went  out  and  hid  it  in  the  barn." 


Inside  our  Gale,  237 

Another  night  she  told  me  about  Mrs.  Talbot's  sister- 
in-law  and  brother-in-law,  —  a  bachelor  and  an  old 
maid  who  lived  in  the  other  half  of  the  house.  Every 
body  called  him  "  Uncle  William  "  and  her  "  Friend 
Frances."  I  asked  if  they  were  Quakers,  since  she 
was  called  Friend  Frances ;  but  Miss  Dibbals  said  no, 
they  'd  always  been  Methodists,  and  she  was  called 
Friend  Frances  just  because  folks  wanted  to  call  her 
that,  which  I  thought  was  the  pleasantest  reason  that 
could  have  been  given. 

Uncle  William  and  Friend  Frances  had  once  been 
so  well  off  that  they  were  able  to  "  take  papers ; " 
and  at  that  same  time  a  nephew  in  New  Bedford  was 
in  easy  circumstances  too  and  sent  them  "  Harper's 
Weekly,"  so  that  with  their  "Christian  Union"  and 
the  Jonestown  "  Herald,"  they  had  all  the  literature 
they  could  digest.  These  pleasant  times  went  on  for 
several  years,  while  the  piles  of  carefully  preserved 
papers  grew  higher  and  higher ;  but  in  these  "  hard 
times  "  they  cheerfully  returned  to  the  old  piles,  and 
now,  Miss  Dibbals  said,  for  about  five  years  they  had 
reread  their  old  stock  "Winters." 

Uncle  William  was  feeble  and  could  only  do  a  little 
work  about  the  farm.  Friend  Frances  bought  the 
sugar  and  coffee  and  "  store  findin's  "  out  of  her  pit 
tance  and  did  the  housework.  They  could  not  afford 


238  Inside  our  Gate. 

to  keep  even  a  boy  to  help  them ;  but  they  were  so 
hospitable  that  any  one  of  their  acquaintance  might 
find  a  home  in  their  house  without  warning.  Miss 
Dibbals  herself,  who  was  distantly  connected  with 
them  through  her  stepmother,  used  to  stay  there 
months  at  a  time  when  she  was  n't  "  out." 

From  all  Miss  Dibbals  told  me,  I  can  see  as  plainly 
as  if  I  were  there  myself,  on  the  visit  I  long  to  make 
to  them,  the  large  old  kitchen  where  Uncle  William 
sits  on  Winter  evenings  by  the  fire,  smoking  his  pipe, 
while  Friend  Frances  clears  away  the  tea  dishes. 
When  this  is  done  he  takes  down  his  violin,  and  as 
soon  as  he  begins  to  play,  the  old  gray  cat  jumps 
upon  his  shoulder  and  sits  there  quietly  until  he 
touches  certain  plaintive  notes  that  jar  on  Tilly's 
nerves ;  then  she  stretches  out  her  paw  and  claws 
the  strings  with  a  prolonged  "  ow-w-w."  Through  the 
"Arkansas  Traveller,"  or  any  merry  tune,  Tilly  sits 
unmoved.  She  has  no  sense  of  humor;  cats  rarely 
have  after  their  first  youth. 

There  was  an  old  resident  of  Jonestown,  a  worthless 
fellow,  who  drank  more  than  was  good  for  him,  and 
often  put  up  for  the  Winter  in  the  poorhouse.  Occa 
sionally  he  made  himself  Uncle  William's  guest ;  and 
he  was  never  sent  away,  though  he  stayed  for  weeks. 
The  violin  was  a  great  attraction  to  this  old  vagabond. 


Inside  our  Gate.  239 

He  could  play  well,  and  he  would  lay  the  instrument 
against  his  rough  old  cheek  and  play  and  play,  while 
Uncle  William  listened  and  smoked.  Friend  Frances 
used  to  get  tired  and  slip  away  to  bed.  Whenever  she 
saw  the  old  fellow  coming  down  the  lane,  she  would 
run  first  to  her  brother  and  beg  him  not  to  bring  the 
violin  out  unless  John  asked  for  it,  for  after  getting  his 
hand  on  it.it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  lay  it  down. 

Uncle  William  was  so  fond  of  animals  too,  Miss 
Dibbals  told  us,  that  he  made  friends  with  every  living 
thing.  The  squirrels  from  the  woods  behind  the  barn 
came  down  freely  and  fed  with  the  chickens.  Uncle 
William  owned  the  woods  and  would  never  allow  a 
gun  to  be  fired  in  them.  There  was  a  sun-dial  by  the 
back  door,  and  a  milk-house  built  over  a  spring,  and 
behind  the  house  ran  a  river  where  they  had  a  row- 
boat.  Uncle  William  often  roved  the  woods  or  rowed 
up  the  river  to  the  "  Far  Meadows  "  to  get  wild  flow 
ers,  for  he  knew  where  to  find  every  sort  that  grew  in 
town.  Miss  Dibbals  said  the  Episcopal  minister  used 
often  to  go  with  him  for  flowers.  "  He  pressed  'em," 
she  added  with  a  smile  of  pitying  contempt,  as  one 
might  speak  of  a  clergyman  who  made  a  collection  of 
buttons. 

After  Miss  Dibbals  left  the  hospital,  she  took  the 
opportunity  to  visit  some  of  the  Jonestown  folk,  who 


240  Inside  our  Gate. 

had  been  forced  by  untoward  circumstances  to  move 
from  that  enchanting  spot  to  New  York  City. 

A  young  man  who  was  a  letter-carrier  in  New  York 
had  returned,  most  naturally,  to  Jonestown  to  get  a 
wife,  "  for  he  could  n't  tell  who  he  was  gettin'  if  he 
married  in  New  York,"  Miss  Dibbals  said.  "  He 
married  Luella  Eels.  Luella  was  a  real  capable  girl, 
and  was  n't  goin'  to  be  a  burden  to  him,  so  when  they 
returned  to  the  city  to  live  she  looked  round  to  see 
how  she  could  help,  and  finally  she  decided  to  keep 
a  paper  and  cheap  book  stand,  —  a  real  nice  little 
place  like  a  room,  with  just  a  window  open  in  front 
to  sell  out  of. 

"She  had  quite  a  chance  to  read  between  cus 
tomers  ;  and  she  used  to  tell  me  and  her  husband 
real  interestin'  stories,  nights,  that  she  'd  read.  There 
was  one  real  excitin'  one  in  the  New  York  '  Weekly,' 
about  a  Mr.  Atherton,  who  ran  away  from  his  wife 
when  they  had  n't  been  long  married ;  and  years  after 
ward  he  met  her  and  did  n't  know  her,  and  offered 
himself  to  her,  and  she  married  him  and  then  told 
him  that  she  had  been  married  to  him  before." 

"  And  he  never  had  a  suspicion  that  he  had  seen 
her  before?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no ;  because  she  had  changed  her  name  and 
wore  a  light  curly  wig." 


Inside  our  Gate.  241 

"  What  stuff  they  do  make  up  ! "  said  I.  "  It 
couldn't  be  so." 

"  Well,  it  was  so,"  said  Miss  Dibbals,  "  for  I  bought 
the  paper  it  was  in  to  send  to  Jonestown.  It  give  the 
man's  name,  Re^znald  yitherton.  And  it  give  the  street 
and  number  in  New  York  City  where  he  lived,  and 
said  she  boarded  at  the  Fletcher  House  in  Canal 
Street.  We  passed  that  way  one  day  to  see  if  it 
was  there ;  and,  sure  enough,  there  was  '  Fletcher 
House '  on  the  sign.  Why,  they  would  n't  dare  to 
give  ages,  names,  streets,  number,  and  all,  if  it 
wasn't  so." 

I  said  no  more. 

She  knew  a  photographer  in  New  York,  —  Mr. 
Weeks,  — a  Jonestown  man.  She  told  me  once  that 
no  fortune-teller  could  get  round  her,  for  Mr.  Weeks 
knew  a  photographer  away  uptown  in  Eighth  Avenue, 
whose  wife  was  called  "  Madame  Susette  "  and  made 
lots  of  money  as  a  fortune-teller.  "  You  see,  the  way 
was,"  said  Miss  Dibbals,  "  the  man  would  photograph 
people  on  paper,  and  not  put  on  some  sort  of  acid 
that  fetches  the  picture  out.  Mr.  Weeks  said  it 
looked  like  a  plain  piece  of  paper.  Then  when 
a  man  come  to  get  his  fortune  told,  she  'd  tell  him 
a  lot  of  stuff,  and  then  offer  to'  show  him  his  girl's 
picture.  She  'd  lay  one  of  these  papers  into  a  saucer 
16 


242  Inside  our  Gate. 

that  she  said  had  nothin'  but  water  in  it,  but  it  had 
this  stuff  her  husband  had  fixed ;  and  the  first  thing 
he  'd  know,  he  'd  see  a  girl's  face  lookin'  out  of  the 
saucer  at  him.  Mr.  Weeks  said  he  'd  been  intro 
duced  to  this  man's  wife  once  in  the  gallery ;  so  he 
thought  he  'd  go  to  Madame  Susette  and  see  if  it  was 
true  what  he  'd  heard  about  her.  When  he  went  in  he 
says,  '  How  d'  ye  do  ? '  but  she  made  out  she  did  n't 
know  him,  and  showed  him  one  o'  these  girls'  heads ; 
and  when  he  said  he  guessed  that  must  be  his  second 
wife,  and  asked  her  who  took  the  photograph,  she 
looked  real  mad ;  and  the  next  time  her  husband  saw 
Mr.  Weeks  he  would  n't  even  speak  to  him." 


XIII. 

NOW,  who  do  you   suppose   entered  our  gate? 
The    little    god   of   love    himself!      He   came 
to    the    kitchen   door  and    asked    for    Tibbie.      He 
came  disguised,  the  goose,  as   if  we  would  n't  know 
him,  — 

"  Having  once  met  him,  one  does  n't  forget  him." 

He  was  disguised  first,  as  Rabby  Brown,  sailor;  but 
the  second  time  he  asked  for  Tibbie,  he  gave  the 
name  of  Peter  McFarlane,  baker. 

Rabby  was  a  big  sunburnt  sailor,  who  looked  as  if 
nothing  could  stir  him  from  his  settled  calm.  I  could 
hear  Tibbie's  tongue  flying  when  he  was  there,  and  oc 
casionally  a  murmur  from  him  or  a  low  laugh.  He 
came  often,  for  he  was  just  in  from  India,  and  was 
soon  to  sail  for  Glasgow.  Sometimes  he  sat  silent  on 
the  kitchen  piazza.,  while  Tibbie  busied  herself  within. 
When  they  went  out  for  a  little  stroll  about  the 
yard,  Elinor  and  Douglas  always  followed  behind 
with  the  collie-dog  behind  them.  One  afternoon, 
not  long  before  Rabby  sailed,  Tibbie  kept  him 


244  Inside  our  Gate. 

for  two  hours  in  the  cherry-trees  picking  fruit  to 
preserve ;  and  another  day  she  gave  him  the  lawn- 
mower  "just  to  roll  over  the  grass,"  occasionally 
stepping  out  to  point  to  a  place  he  had  skipped, 
or  to  show  how  to  guide  the  mower  round  the  trees. 
Finally  his  ship  was  to  sail,  and  Tibbie  went  to  see 
him  off. 

That  night  I  said  to  her,  "Tibbie,  Rabby  Brown 
came  here  so  often  while  he  was  on  shore  that  I 
thought  maybe  he  'd  want  to  marry  you  before  he 
sailed." 

"  Weel,  he  did,"  admitted  Tibbie  ;  "  but  I  tauld  him 
I  couldna  attend  to  it  noo  when  the  Spring  .cleanin' 
had  been  put  off  so  late,  wi'  sickness  i'  th'  family,  ex 
tra  blanket-washin',  and  the  kitchen  tae  be  whitened, 
and  carpaets  tae  be  repaired.  Sae  he  said  that 
when  /  was  ready  I  would  know  weel  that  he  'd  be 
waitin',  ready  also.  An'  noo,  hoo  about  the  blankets  ? 
Will  ye  hae  the  black  woman  or  the  German  woman 
to  assist  me  ?  Ah,  could  I  but  tak'  them  to  a  stream 
an'  hae  the  lads  to  pipe  the  while,  I  'd  dance  on  the 
blankets  merrily." 

One  night  "  Meester  McFarlane  "  came  and  asked 
for  me.  After  Tibbie  had  shown  him  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  announced  my  visitor,  she  went  into  the 
kitchen.  I  supposed  he  had  come  to  attend  to  some 


Inside  our  Gate.  245 

business  with  me  —  I  had  a  bill  at  his  shop  —  be 
fore  he  settled  down  to  courting  in  the  kitchen. 

He  sat  stiff  and  solemn  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa. 
After  he  greeted  me,  there  was  a  long  silence,  so  I 
said,  "  I  believe  you  wanted  to  see  me,  Mr.  McFarlane ; 
the  bill  was  right,  was  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  Mistress  Burroughs,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  called 
to  discourse  wi'  ye  about  Catharine  Elizabeth  Drum- 
mond.  I  Ve  made  her  an  honorable  offer  of  holy 
matrimony,  an'  I  canna  male'  oot  if  she  's  ta'en  me  or 
no.  I  '11  no  bear  triflin'  wi' ;  I  'm  no  lad.  One  night 
she  is  enticin',  one  night  obdurate." 

"  Perhaps  Tibbie  does  n't  know  her  own  mind  yet," 
I  said.  And  with  a  feeling  of  general  loyalty  to  my 
sex,  I  added,  "  Tibbie  has  another  lover,  I  believe ; 
perhaps  she  has  not  decided."  The  man  seemed 
actually  to  grow  rigid,  so  I  hastened  to  say,  "  But 
if  she  has  promised  to  marry  you,  she  should  not 
trifle  with  you.  Has  she  promised?" 

"  Weel,  no,  I  canna  say  she  hae,"  said  Mr.  McFar 
lane,  doubtfully.  "  She  has  never  just  committed  her 
self;  but  she  has  said  that  she  liket  auld  men  better 
than  lads,  an'  she  asket  me  once  how  me  affairs  stood, 
an'  I  told  her  quite  explicit.  She  told  me  quite  fair, 
as  if  we  was  gettin'  things  settled,  that  she  was  an  ab 
stainer,  and  asket  if  I  was.  I  confessed  that  I  was  no 


246  Inside  our  Gate. 

abstainer  and  yet  no  drinker,  though  on  a  New  Year 
we  had  always  had  a  toddy ;  so  she  made  me  promise 
to  become  an  abstainer,  an'  I  did.  I  hear  that  she  is 
a  verra  thrifty  lass  an'  would  mak'  a  guid  wife,  an'  she 
is  comely ;  but  I  canna  be  rinnin'  like  a  doggie  at  her 
heels  at  my  age.  To-night  or  never,  says  I.  Perhaps 
ye  'd  ca'  her  in,  ma'am,  an'  be  done  wi'  it." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  to  see  her  by  herself?  "  I 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  "  Meester  McFarlane,"  with  dignity,  "  I 
prefar  witnesses  to  the  transaction.  I  'm  na  lad  " 
that  seemed  a  favorite  expression  whose  truth  needed 
no  other  witness  than  his  well-wigged  head  —  "  to  be 
makin'  love  by  the  light  o'  the  moon,  or  trampin'  the 
brae  in  th'  dew.  Na,  na ;  ca'  her  in." 

I  had  not  far  to  go,  —  Tibbie  was  listening  at 
the  door ;  but  I  walked  across  the  back  hall  and  the 
kitchen  and  summoned  her  by  a  beckoning  finger. 
I  knew  she  had  heard  all. 

Tibbie  followed  me  in  and  sat  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  after  demurely  saying,  "  Guid-evenin'  to 
you,  Meester  McFarlane  ;  I  hope  ye  're  weel." 

"  I  'm  quite  weel,  thank  ye,  an'  hope  ye  are  the 
same,"  he  replied  stiffly. 

"  Tibbie,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  McFarlane  asked  to  have 
you  called  in  ;  he  will  tell  you  what  he  wishes  to  say." 


Inside  our  Gate.  247 

"  I  just  called  to  say,  Miss  Catharine  Elizabeth 
Drummond,  that  I  made  ye  an  offer  o'  matrimony 
this  day  week,  an'  I  wad  like  an  answer." 

Tibbie  looked  as  innocent  as  a  lamb.  "Weel, 
sir,"  she  said,  "  if  a'  ye  require  is  an  answer,  I  sup 
pose  as  long  as  ye  get  an  answer,  ye  dinna  care  what 
it  may  be." 

"  Ye  ken  weel  that  I  care,"  replied  the  suitor,  dog 
gedly.  "  The  last  time  I  was  here,  ye  made  objection 
to  me  bein'  a  baker ;  but  ye  suld  pick  that  bone  wi' 
me  faither  for  apprenticin'  me  to  that  trade.  Ye  re- 
market  that  ye  'd  always  intended  to  marry  wi'  a  sailor ; 
but  I  canna  be  a  sailor  a-grippin'  wet  ropes,  nor  climb- 
in'  up  bare  poles  like  a  dancin'  bear,  to  pleesure  even 
ye,  at  my  time  o'  life." 

Mr.  McFarlane's  temper  was  up  a  bit;  he  didn't 
know  Tibbie  as  well  as  I  did.  A  firm  expression  was 
settling  about  her  mouth,  and  a  glitter  was  in  her 
eye. 

"What  settled  objection  hae  ye  to  a  baker?"  he 
continued. 

"It  always  mak's  me  sick  to  me  stomick,"  replied 
Tibbie,  "  to  think  o'  flour  an'  water  muddled  thegither 
by  men- folk.  I  've  heered  that  they  tramps  crackers 
wi'  their  feet  too,  —  Heaven  forbid  !  " 

This  was  too  much  for  Mr.  McFarlane.     "  Hae  ye 


248  Inside  our  Gate. 

nae  tasted  baker's  bread  in  ye'r  life,"  said  he,  warmly, 
"or  crackers,  lass?" 

"Weel,  I  maun  confess  I  hae,"  returned  Tibbie,  in 
a  provokingly  calm  voice,  "  when  I  was  a  bit  o'  a  lass 
an'  didna  ken  what  I  was  eatin' ;  we  a'  maun  eat  our 
peck  o'  dirt." 

"  An'  hae  ye  nae  eaten  baker's  bread  sin'  ye  were 
grown?" 

It  sounded  like  a  stern  controversy  between  con 
sumer  and  manufacturer,  rather  than  like  a  conversa 
tion  between  lover  and  sweetheart. 

"Weel,  I  hae,"  admitted  Tibbie,  "when  took  wi' 
the  pangs  o'  hunger,  and  considerin'  what  the  chosen 
people  eat  in  th1  destruction  o'  Jerusalem ;  but  I  eat 
it  wi'  me  eyes  fixet  on  the  ceilin',  an'  repeatin'  a  verse 
o'  Scripture  to  divert  me  mind  till  it  were  weel  gulpet 
doun." 

"Sae,"  said  Mr.  McFarlane,  rising  stiffly,  "I'll  bid 
ye  guid-evenin'." 

" But,"  said  Tibbie,  —  he  paused  to  listen,  —  "I 
may  nae  like  a  mon's  trade  an'  like  the  mon.  I  can, 
thank  Heaven,  mak'  me  ain  bread  an'  bannocks  as 
well  as  me  ain  New- Year  cake  an'  parritch.  I  'm  be 
holden  to  none  for  that  I  thought  ye  said  ye  wanted 
a  body  to  stan'  in  your  shop  behin'  your  cookies." 

"Weel?" 


Inside  our  Gate.  249 

"  Weel,  I  couldna  do  that.  It  wad  mak'  me  wild  in 
me  heid  to  stan  wi'  idle  ban's  like  an  auld  hen,  on 
one  leg  and  thin  on  the  ither,  waitin'  for  folk  to  come 
i'  th'  shop,  suitin'  themsel's  in  the  time." 

"  I  said  that  me  wife  did  help  me  in  th'  shop,  an' 
sae  she  did ;  an'  she  knitted  too,  the  whiles,  an'  baket 
an'  brewed,  and  let  lodgin's,  moreover." 

"  I  believe  ye,"  said  Tibbie ;  "  she  did  a'  that,  an' 
more  too,  and  then,  quite  wore  oot,  just  stretchet 
herself  oot  an'  died." 

"  An'  ye  wad  like  to  be  a  married  woman,  an'  yet 
sit  cocket  up  in  th'  parlor  wi'  a  glass  case  o'er  ye, 
quite  removet  frae  the  ills  o'  life  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  bitter, 
sarcastic  tone. 

"  I  'd  nae  sit  in  your  parlor,"  said  Tibbie,  with 
flushed  cheeks,  "  if  you  'd  gie  me  all  the  siller  i'  th' 
warld.  I  dinna  believe  ye  care  for  me,  but  only  for 
the  work  ye  'd  get  oot  o'  me  to  save  ye  wi'  a  house 
maid  an'  a  dark.  Ye'r  auld  heart  is  nae  mair  true 
nor  is  ye'r  fine  heid  o'  deceitful  hair." 

I  thought  now  it  was  time  for  me  to  leave  the  room ; 
but  I  had  not  gone  halfway  upstairs,  when  Mr.  Mc- 
Farlane  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  began  a 
struggle  with  the  door.  I  returned  to  pull  the  night- 
latch  for  him. 

"  Guid-nicht,   Mistress   Burroughs,"    said   he.      "  I 


250  Inside  our  Gate. 

thank  the  Lord,  wha  has  enlightened  my  een  an* 
opened  me  ears  an'  delivered  rne  frae  the  snares 
of  a  termagant.  In  the  words  o'  Solomon,  I  'd 
rather  dwell  in  the  house-top  alane,  than  wi'  a 
brawlin'  woman  in  a  wide  hoose.  Guid-nicht." 

I  did  not  speak  to  Tibbie  of  her  discarded  lover, 
nor  did  she  refer  to  him  for  a  week  or  more.  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  one  day  to  give  an  order,  and  after 
that  was  settled  Tibbie  began, — 

"Did  ye  hear  that  Meester  McFarlane  was 
married?" 

"  No  ;  not  to  you,  Tibbie  ?  " 

Tibbie  burst  out  laughing.  "  Na,  not  to  me,  but  to 
a  widow  wi'  a  big  lad  an'  a  lass.  Heaven  was  quite 
considerate  to  him,  he  '11  be  thinkin',  providin'  him  wi' 
a  errant-boy  an'  a  clark  an'  a  wife  a'  in  one  whip. 
He  was  too  canny  for  me.  I  'd  far  sooner  hae  Rabby 
Brown  an'  only  his  sailor's  pay  than  an  auld  carle 
like  Meester  McFarlane.  I  made  a'  my  gibes  about 
the  trade  just  tae  fret  Meester  McFarlane,  but  't  war 
nae  the  shop  nor  the  trade  that  I  objected  tae,  but 
just  tae  Meester  McFarlane  himsel'.  I  wish  Rabby 
Brown  had  that  fine  shop,"  she  added  with  a  sigh, 
"and  Meester  McFarlane  a-shinnin'  up  the  mast, 
I  'd  nae  object  to  gie  a  helpin'  hand  then,  i'  the  shop. 
I  hae  been  alternatin1  the  twa  o'  them  in  my  mind," 


Inside  our  Gate.  251 

she  continued,  "  for  some  time,  an'  I  think  I  '11  hae 
Rabby  noo.  If  I  'd  married  Meester  McFarlane  I  'd 
hae  been  naught  but  Meestress  McFarlane,  for  he  's 
the  mulishest-headedest  Scotchman  !  but  if  I  marry 
Rab  I  '11  be  Tibbie  Drummond  the  same,  wi'  just 
Brown  tacket  on.  I  'd  nae  be  wearyin'  did  he  mean 
this  thing  or  the  ither  thing,  for  I  ken  Rabby  through 
an'  through,  an'  he  kens  me  as  weel.  If  he  wants  me, 
he  aye  kens  what  he  's  gettin' ;  he 's  seen  me  merry 
an'  sad  an'  mad.  I  'm  aye  tae  him  like  a  gown  that  '11 
nae  fade  i'  th'  sun  or  fray  i'  th'  wearin'  or  shrink  i'  th' 
washin' ;  he  's  aye  content  wi'  me.  But  I  'm  nae  quite 
settled  in  me  mind  about  marryin'  at  a' ;  it  's  a  lottery, 
a  lottery." 

The  first  year  Tibbie  was  with  us,  I  did  not  feel 
strong,  and  was  eating  only  the  simplest  of  foods. 

"  Ye  must  eat  pease-brose,"  said  Tibbie ;  "  a'  the 
Scotch  doctors  wad  tell  ye  that  for  a  consideration,  but 
I  '11  tell  ye  wi'out  one.  There  's  na  cookin'  to  it ;  but 
when  I  infuse  the  tea  I  pour  boiling  water  into  a  bowl 
an'  stir  up  the  meal  wi'  a  bit  o'  salt  till  it 's  smooth  as 
satin,  an'  then  ye  '11  sup  it  wi'  milk.  Ye  can  eat  it  frae 
a  saucer ;  but  ye  should  eat  it  frae  a  bowl  an'  a  cup  o' 
milk  handy.  A  spoonful  o'  brose  an'  a  sup  o'  milk, 
that 's  the  true  way." 


252  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  I  don't  think  I  'd  like  it,"  said  I.  "  I  don't  like 
any  sort  of  porridge." 

"  That 's  a  verra  wrong  feelin',  then,"  said  Tibbie. 
"  Ye  maun  just  conquer  it  Like  the  Syrian  captain, 
ye  maun  hae  som'  gran'  physic  ;  ye  '11  no  tak'  the  wash 
an'  be  clean." 

"  Well,  I  will  try  it  perhaps  sometime,"  said  I ; 
"  but  I  don't  believe  our  grocer  keeps  it." 

"  I  ken  weel  that  he  does  not,"  said  Tibbie,  proudly ; 
"  it 's  sold  by  naebody  but  just  John  Mclntire,  Scottish 
grocer,  in  the  city.  Shall  I  send  to-day  for  a  tin  can 
o'  it?" 

"  We  can't  to-day.  Mr.  Burroughs  has  gone, 
and  —  " 

Tibbie  made  a  sudden  rush  out  of  the  kitchen  door, 
and  returned  in  a  moment,  panting,  breathless,  but 
content 

"I  just  caught  the  express,"  she  said,  "an"  sent  for 
the  pease  meal." 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  the  pease- brose  was 
set  before  us,  hot  and  smooth. 

"  What  is  this  ? "  said  Allan,  as  Tibbie  placed  a 
saucerful  before  him. 

He  tasted  it  and  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  You  can 
take  it  away,"  said  he ;  "I  don't  like  it." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  I.     I  could  n't  eat  it. 


Inside  our  Gate.  253 

"  I  don'  like  it,"  said  little  Elinor,  shivering  and 
"  making  a  mouth  ;  "  "  it 's  nas'y." 

"  It 's  a  pity  ye  don't  tak'  kindly  to  it,"  said  Tibbie. 
"  Ye  maun  just  buckle  down  to  it  till  ye  do ;  it 's  for 
ye'r  good.  As  Paul  said  tae  Timothy,  who  was  in 
like  case  wi'  ye,  tak'  it  for  ye'r  often  infirmities." 

Tibbie  stood  by  Elinor's  chair.  "  Open  ye'r  mouth, 
Elinor  !  " 

"  I  don'  want  it ;  it 's  nas'y,"  said  the  child,  shut 
ting  her  little  mouth  tight. 

"  Come,  lassie,  be  a  braw  Lowland  lass ;  we  '11  nae 
eat  oats  like  the  ponies  an'  the  Hielanders." 

Thus  adjured,  Elinor  opened  her  mouth,  and  by 
dint  of  coaxing  Tibbie  fed  her  the  whole  saucerful. 

"  There,"  she  cried  in  triumph  to  me,  "  ye  see  hoo 
it  was  done,  line  upon  line ;  by  the  time  ye  've  eat 
it  a  week  or  twa,  ye  '11  no  sorrow  that  I  was  firm 
wi'  ye." 

Allan  and  I  exchanged  smiles,  tempered  with  fear, 
and  well  might  we,  for  the  pease-brose  appeared  upon 
the  breakfast-table  the  next  morning,  and  so  on  for  a 
week,  while  Tibbie  stood  by  never  wavering. 

"  I  've  a  funny  little  story  to  tell  you  about  Tibbie," 
said  I,  as  we  settled  down  comfortably  in  the  parlor 
one  evening. 

"  Nothing  about  pease-brose,  is  it?  "  asked  Allan. 


254  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  No,  it 's  about  the  Giant's  Causeway.  Tibbie  was 
visiting  some  friends  who  promised  to  take  her  to  see 
a  wonderful  sight.  They  told  her  of  a  little  chain- 
bridge  which  crossed  from  the  mainland,  —  a  bridge 
about  twenty  feet  above  the  water.  No  one,  so  it  was 
said,  had  ever  crossed  this  bridge,  which  was  built, 
Tibbie  says,  simply  to  show  how  contemptible  are  the 
works  of  man  beside  those  of  God.  Every  one  went 
by  boat,  —  the  offer  of  a  china  tea-set  by  the  old 
woman  on  the  island  not  having  tempted  any  one  to 
walk  over  it.  The  chains  run  cross-wise,  and  the  bridge 
is  very  narrow.  Well,  Tibbie  announced  to  Mrs.  Mann 
and  Mrs.  Tulloch  that  she  should  walk  across.  Mrs. 
Mann  offered  her  ten  shillings  if  she  would  n't  go,  but 
she  would." 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  Allan. 

"  Mrs.  Mann  and  her  sister  were  rowed  over  in  a 
boat,  and  they  kept  as  nearly  as  they  could  under  the 
bridge,  expecting  every  minute  that  Tibbie  would  fall 
through.  Mrs.  Mann  carried  Tibbie's  shoes  and  a 
pair  of  stockings,  for  Tibbie  had  to  go,  if  go  she 
would,  in  her  stocking  feet,  that  her  feet  might  cling 
to  the  chains.  She  says  that  when  she  got  half 
way  there,  —  it 's  a  mile  across,  —  she  'd  a  mind  to 
drop  through,  but  she  just  grit  her  teeth  and  kept 
on." 


Inside  our  Gate.  255 

"  I  '11  warrant  she  did,"  said  Allan. 

"  And  when  the  painful  walk  was  over,  her  feet  were 
sore  beyond  measure,  so  that  she  had  to  put  them  in  a 
hot  bath,  which  the  old  woman  who  had  charge  of  the 
place  gave  her.  Just  think  of  a  walk  of  a  mile  on 
swaying  chains  in  stocking  feet !  She  has  the  stuff  in 
her  that  makes  martyrs." 

"  Yes,"  said  Allan,  "  or  the  stuff  that  makes  martyrs 
of  other  people." 

"  She  said  it  was  a  lovely  place  where  she  landed,  — 
a  whitewashed  stone  cottage  with  a  thatched  roof,  and 
a  lovely  garden  full  of  pansies,  and  what  she  called 
'  piano-roses,'  but  which  were  peonies,  I  imagine. 
Inside,  the  beds  were  in  the  wall  like  berths,  with 
checked  linen  curtains  of  blue  and  white  before 
them,  and  —  " 

"  Did  she  get  the  china?  "  asked  Allan. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  not  all  of  it,  because  she  could  n't 
walk  back ;  but  the  old  woman  gave  her  a  cream-jug 
and  a  cup  and  saucer,  all  gilded,  for  the  walk  she  did 
take.  And  the  old  woman  wore  a  big  ruffled  cap, 
with  the  ruffles  edged  with  lace,  and — •" 

Allan  had  been  thinking.  "  Mary,"  said  he,  "  don't 
balk  any  more  about  that  pease-brose.  We  've  got 
to  eat  it,  that 's  plain ;  and  so  the  sooner  we  buckle 
down  to  it  the  better.  I  '11  eat  mine  like  a  little  lamb 


256  Inside  our  Gate. 

to-morrow  if  you  will  I  feel  powerless  in  Tibbie's 
hands." 

"Well,  I  will,"  said  I.  "I  asked  Mr.  Campbell 
about  it,  and  he  said  it  was  excellent  food  ;  and  really, 
Allan,  it  begins  to  have  a  nutty  sweetness  to  me,  —  a 
taste  as  of  roasted  chestnuts." 

We  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed.  And  so  the 
pease-brose  took  its  place  in  the  family  circle. 


XIV. 

nPHERE  was  to  be  a  temperance  convention  in 
-*-  our  town.  The  ladies  of  the  village  had  been 
from  house  to  house  to  stir  up  the  people's  minds,  and 
to  ask  gifts  of  cake  and  cold  meat  for  the  great  colla 
tion  in  the  hall.  They  evidently  thought  that  the 
most  agreeable  way  of  disposing  of  the  evil  of  intem 
perance  would  be  for  all  to  rise  up  and  "  squinch  it," 
as  Tibbie  would  say,  in  one  day. 

Two  days  before  the  convention,  one  of  the  ladies 
who  was  on  the  committee  for  selecting  speakers  came 
to  tell  me  that  their  principal  speaker,  Mr.  Crittenden 
Brown,  had  been  called  away  from  home  to  Ohio  to 
his  old  father's  death-bed. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  Do  you  know  of  any  one  we 
could  get?  "  she  asked  me  in  despair. 

I  wished  I  could  help  her ;  but  I  did  n't  know  a 
single  temperance  lecturer. 

That  evening,  after  being  lost  in  thought  for  some 
time,  I  cried  triumphantly  to  Allan,  who  was,  by  aid 
17 


258  Inside  our  Gale. 

of  the  evening  paper,  attending  the  prison  convention, 
"Why  wouldn't  Cousin  Edward  do?" 

"For  what  position  do  you  propose  him?"  asked 
Allan,  looking  over  the  top  of  his  paper. 

"  Why,  to  make  the  first  speech  at  the  temperance 
meeting,  of  course." 

"Does  he  make  temperance  speeches?"  asked 
Allan. 

"  He  can,"  I  replied ;  "  you  know  he  is  very  de 
cided  on  that  question,  and  he  has  a  great  talent  for  pub 
lic  speaking.  Why  are  n't  you  more  interested,  Allan  ? 
If  we  are  going  'to  live  in  this  town  we  must  interest 
ourselves  in  its  affairs,  and  be  willing  to  exert  ourselves 
for  its  good." 

"  But  this  is  exerting  your  cousin,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  shall  ask  him,"  I  said  ;  and  I  at  once  wrote 
as  follows :  — 

"  DEAR  COUSIN  EDWARD,  —  I  know  several  things 
about  you.  I  know  you  are  a  very  busy  man  ;  but  I 
know  you  are  a  very  kind  man ;  and  I  know  you  are  a 
good  temperance  man.  Will  you  not  come  and  help  us 
by  speaking  at  our  temperance  convention  ?  Do  not  say 
no.  Gough  is  dead  and  Jerry  IMcAuley  is  dead  — 

"  He  knows  they  are  dead,"  said  Allan,  impolitely 
reading  over  my  shoulder.  "  Why  not  go  on  and  tell 
him  Washington  is  dead,  William  Penn  is  dead  —  " 


Inside  our  Gate.  259 

"  Don't  be  too  funny,"  said  I ;  "  I  was  only  going 
to  say  that  all  the  great  lecturers  were  dead,  and  that 
therefore  he  would  have  to  come." 

The  lady  who  had  been  so  troubled  about  the 
speaker  was  delighted  when  I  told  her  that  my  cousin, 
Mr.  Edward  Rollins,  would  come,  for  I  had  received 
a  favorable  reply  from  him. 

The  evening  came.  I  had  a  fine  dinner  prepared, 
to  be  on  the  table  at  half-past  six  o'clock,  when  Edward 
would  be  there.  He  did  not  come.  He  came  in  the 
seven  o'clock  train ;  the  meeting  was  to  open  at  eight. 
My  cousin  hardly  touched  my  nice  dinner ;  but  Allan 
did,  just  as  if  it  were  a  tribute  to  him. 

"  Are  you  nervous  before  speaking,  Cousin  Edward," 
I  asked,  "  that  you  can't  taste  your  dinner?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  have  been  very  busy 
to-day,  unusually  busy.  I  had  a  large  mail  to  get  off 
by  to-day's  steamer,  and  I  am  tired  and  have  a  bad 
headache ;  but  that  will  pass  off." 

"  The  excitement  of  speaking  will  cure  it,"  I  said. 

"It  would  be  better  to  cure  it  before  speaking," 
said  Allan.  "  Give  him  some  red  pepper  with  boiling 
water  poured  on  it;  that  always  helps  me." 

"  Or  a  little  baking  soda,"  said  I,  —  "a  salt-spoonful 
in  cold  water,  that  is  good ;  or  a  cup  of  hot  tea  with 
out  milk  or  sugar." 


260  Inside  our  Gate. 

We  tried  everything  on  him,  but  we  saw  him  get 
paler  and  paler. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  "  if  you  will  excuse  me  I  '11  lie 
down  for  a  few  minutes  and  get  a  nap  That  will  make 
me  entirely  well ;  it  always  does." 

A  nap  !  why,  in  twenty-five  minutes  the  exercises 
would  begin. 

At  last  it  was  arranged  that  Allan  should  go  alone 
to  the  hall  and  say  that  Mr.  Rollins  had  been  unex 
pectedly  delayed  for  a  short  time.  I  would  come 
with  Edward  after  the  nap. 

So  Allan  reluctantly  went  off  alone.  I  bathed  my 
cousin's  brow  with  peppermint  and  laudanum.  I 
should  have  given  him  a  little  dose  of  brandy  but 
that  it  seemed  so  inappropriate  a  remedy  just  then.  I 
put  hot  flannels  on  his  head,  vinegar  and  water, 
and  cologne.  I  put  a  mustard  paste  on  the  back  of 
his  neck.  He  thought  then  he  could  sleep.  I  went 
back  to  him  at  quarter  after  eight  Now  he  must 

go- 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  said  he,  struggling  to  open  his 
eyes,  "temperance  or  no  temperance,  I  can  never 
speak  to-night,  never ;  no,  not  to  save  my  life  !  " 

I  saw  that  he  could  n't  I  had  had  just  such  head 
aches,  when  husband,  children,  and  life  counted  for 
nothing  in  the  present  sickening  pain. 


Inside  our  Gate.  261 

"  Then  I  think  I  '11  go  and  take  Tibbie  with  me," 
said  I,  "  for  something  must  be  done." 

"  Do,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  with  a  groan  upon  his 
pillow. 

It  was  half- past  eight  when  I  got  to  the  hall.  I  sat 
down  near  the  door  and  looked  about  for  some  one 
to  carry  a  message  to  my  husband.  A  little  girl,  a 
pert  little  girl  in  white  with  a  blue  ribbon  on  her 
shoulder,  was  reciting  a  "  poem,"  every  verse  ending, 
"  To  help  the  cause  along."  It  seemed  to  be  a  sneer 
at  me.  A  gentleman  on  the  platform  rose  and  said, 
"  We  have  been  informed  that  Mr.  Edward  Rollins, 
who  is  to  address  us,  has  been  detained  for  a  short 
season." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  ticking  of  the  great 
clock  over  the  door  grew  painfully  loud.  At  last  Allan 
gave  out  the  number  of  a  hymn,  and  while  the  audi 
ence  were  singing  he  came  down  the  aisle.  Tibbie  and 
I  slipped  out  and  waited  for  him  in  the  vestibule. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  he,  "  where  in  the  world  is 
Edward?  I  have  been  sitting  on  needles  and  pins. 
I  gave  out  a  good  long  hymn,  but  they  're  in  the 
third  verse  already.  It 's  the  only  time  I  ever  heard 
an  audience  sing  too  fast.  Will  Edward  be  here 
soon  ?  "  And  Allan  took  out  his  watch. 

"  He  is  positively  sick,"  I  said.     "  He  just  cannot 


262  Inside  our  Gate. 

come.  They  must  get  on  as  best  they  may.  I  'm 
sorry,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Allan  scribbled  a  note  to  the  president  and  sent  it 
up  by  a  small  boy.  Then  he  went  home  to  see  if 
Edward  needed  a  doctor,  and  Tibbie  and  I  entered 
the  hall  again. 

It  made  me  shiver  as  I  sat  there  and  heard  the 
audience  swinging  rapidly  along  through  the  seventh 
and  last  verse  of  the  hymn,  to  think  what  would 
happen  when  silence  came  again.  Here  had  half  a 
dozen  ladies  been  planning  for  this  evening  as  the 
grand  climax  of  the  convention ;  and  the  speaker  had 
been  specially  imported  from  the  city  for  the  occasion, 
and  the  president  had  already  told  the  audience  of 
the  "  rich  treat  "  before  them,  and  expectation  was  on 
tiptoe,  and  — 

The  end  of  the  hymn  was  reached.  The  people 
settled  themselves  in  their  seats  and  prepared  to  listen. 
That  dreadful  clock  began  again  to  tick  louder  and 
louder. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  to  say,"  said  the  president, 
rising  slowly,  "  that  Mr.  Rollins,  the  brilliant  temper 
ance  speaker  who  was  to  have  charmed  you  this  even 
ing,  is  suffering  from  a  serious  attack  of  sickness,  and 
will  not  be  able  to  be  with  us.  Eloquent  gentlemen 
are  present,  however,"  he  continued,  looking  round 


Inside  our  Gate.  263 

upon  the  speakers  who  figured  on  the  programme  as 
"  and  others,"  "  who  will  fill  his  place ;  and  I  am  sure 
that  in  this  audience  there  must  be  some  who,  if 
unaccustomed  to  public  speaking,  have  yet  words  of 
moment  to  say  to  us  on  this  vital  subject." 

He  turned  toward  one  of  the  auxiliary  speakers  on 
the  platform,  intending  to  introduce  him,  when  sud 
denly  a  volunteer  in  the  audience,  acting  upon  the 
hint  with  which  the  president  had  closed,  rose  with 
unexpected  promptness  to  his  feet.  He  was  not  far 
from  me ;  and  I  recognized  him  at  once  as  Tim 
Macnamara,  a  poor  waif  who,  about  a  year  before,  had 
drifted  into  the  quiet  haven  of  our  church,  and  since 
that  time  had  attended  every  service,  and  always  sat 
as  quiet  as  a  statue. 

"  Ladies  and  jintlemin,"  he  began,  waving  his  hand 
toward  the  respectable  middle-aged  people  who  com 
posed  the  audience,  —  "  ladies  and  jintlemin,  I  want  to 
warn  ye  not  to  go  into  any  of  thim  painted-up  eatin'- 
houses,  with  lights  with  colored  red  glass  on  thim, 
and  that  says  on  thim,  '  Ladies'  and  Jints'  Oyster- 
Saloons.'  No,  ladies  and  jintlemin,  ye  '11  find  there 
whiskey  and  bad  rum  and  bad  words  and  fightin',  in 
place  of  the  oysters  ye  're  lookin'  for,  and  in  the  win 
ders  ye  '11  see  long  bottles  a-lyin'  on  their  sides ;  and 
that 's  the  way  thim  lies  that  dhrinks  what 's  in  'em." 


264  Inside  our  Gate. 

Our  minister,  who  sat  a  little  in  front  of  him,  moved 
uneasily  in  his  seat,  and  began  to  turn  the  leaves  of 
his  hymn-book.  This  did  not  seem  exactly  the  kind 
of  speech  which  the  occasion  called  for;  but  Mac- 
namara,  quite  unconscious  of  the  sensation  he  was 
producing,  went  on,  — 

"  Sure  it 's  mesilf  that  knows  that  same ;  for  ivery 
night  for  many  a  long  day  I  was  into  thim  places  an' 
was  turned  out  in  the  strate  whin  me  money  was  gone 
an'  whin  me  head  was  addled  with  the  dhrink,  an'  me 
legs  faltherin'  under  me.  An'  what  with  dhrink,  an' 
losin'  me  work  through  that  same,  an'  all  me  frinds 
turnin'  their  backs  on  me,  sure  it  was  sthraight  to  ruin 
ation  I  was  goin'  whin,  glory  be  to  God  !  I  come  to  this 
place.  I  am  that  j'yful  to-night  that  I  can't  kape  me 
sate,  nor  kape  me  tongue  still  in  me  jaws.  Oh, 
manny  's  the  time  I  Ve  sung  the  song  (ye  all  know 
it),  '  I  'm  the  happiest  Paddy  out ; '  but  to-night  I  can 
sing  it  with  quite  a  different  manin'.  Thank  the  Lord, 
I  'm  a  new  man,  clane  widin  and  widout !  Indade, 
to-night  as  I  was  a-puttin'  on  the  blue  necktie  which 
me  Sunday-school  teacher  give  me  Christmas,  an'  I 
a-lookin'  in  the  glass,  says  I  to  mesilf, '  Mac,  ye  '11  have 
to  be  introduced  to  yersilf,  man.' 

"  Now  I  must  tell  ye  of  the  great  elevation  that 's 
come  to  me.  Ye  all  know  that  there  was  a  timper- 


Inside  our  Gate.  265 

ance  meetin'  held  here  less  nor  a  year  ago  by  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  I  was  dragged  in  here  that  night  by  a 
man  that  was  half  dhrunk,  as  I  war  mesilf.  It  was  all 
lighted  up  here,  an'  we  thought  it  was  one  of  thim 
fine  dhrinkin'-saloons  like  thim  on  the  Bowery.  So  I 
was  overcome,  an'  sat  me  down  on  a  settee  by  the 
door. 

"Thin  a  man  got  up  just  in  front  of  me,  an'  he 
puts  his  hand  on  me  head  an'  he  asked  God  to  take 
me  an'  make  something  out  of  me.  Says  I  aloud  to 
mesilf  an'  to  the  man  that  fetched  me  in,  says  I,  '  He 
can't  do  it.'  Says  the  man  who  was  spakin',  —  it  was 
D'acon  Mason,  who  is  sittin'  in  the  front  sate  now  on  the 
lift,  —  says  he,  '  If  the  Lord  made  ye,  ye  poor  cretur, 
an  innocent  baby,'  says  he,  '  he  can  make  ye  over  as 
good  as  new,  can't  he  ? '  says  he.  '  Well,  then,  I  'm 
agreed,'  says  I,  '  an'  why  don't  he  ? '  Says  he,  '  Ask 
him,  thin.'  '  Lord,'  says  I,  '  make  me  as  good  as 
new  !' 

"  After  the  meetin',  for  ye  must  mind  it  war  a  tim- 
perance  meetin'  an'  not  a  saloon  at  all,  D'acon  Mason 
tuck  me  to  a  dacent  lodgin'  an'  give  me  a  bed  that 
night,  an'  had  me  all  freshened  up  in  some  of  his 
own  clo'es,  —  these  are  some  of  his  clo'es,  ladies  and 
jintlemin"  (he  held  up  his  arms),  —  "and  after  I  got 
me  breakfast,  says  I, '  What 's  the  matter  wid  me  ?  I  'm 


266  Inside  our  Gate. 

cravin'  a  dhrink  of  water,  and  I  don't  want  no  stronger 
dhrink,'  says  I.  Says  D'acon  Mason,  '  You  're  clothed 
an'  in  ye'r  right  mind,'  says  he  ;  and  so  I  was.  In  thim 
days  I  did  n't  know  much,  only  whin  D'acon  Mason 
asked  me  wud  I  like  to  start  fresh,  I  thought  I  'd 
just  like  to  throw  me  old  self  away  entirely,  old  clo'es 
and  all. 

"  Thin  the  minister  tuck  me  and  taught  me  of  the 
love  of  God ;  an'  a  lady  in  Sunday-school,  —  Miss 
Lamson  it  was,  the  lady  in  the  third  sate  with  the  red 
ribbon  in  her  hat,  —  says  she,  '  Put  away  ye'r  sin  from 
ye,  and  Jesus  will  be  your  friend  and  brother,'  says 
she. 

"  Says  I,  '  I  never  had  a  brother,  but  I  know  what 
that  manes  ;  he  'd  walk  wid  me  and  talk  wid  me  and 
sup  and  slape  wid  me.' 

"Says  she,  'The  Lord  Jesus  will  be  always  wid 
ye ;  but  be  careful,'  says  she,  'not  to  get  into  no  bad 
places ;  for,  sure,  ye  wud  n't  drag  him  into  no  low 
places  to  grieve  him,  nor  wud  ye  lave  him  alone  on 
the  sidewalk  while  ye  wint  in.' 

"  Says  I.  '  I  '11  not,  while  breath  is  in  me.' 

"  Says  she,  '  Jesus  is  not  like  your  brother  in  bein' 
sinful  like  yersilf,  but  he  '11  make  yer  pure  like  him- 
silf  if  ye  '11  talk  wid  him  an'  then  rade  the  Bible  to 
get  his  answers ;  for  that  book,"  says  she,  '  was  writ  for 


Inside  our  Gale.  267 

you,  Macnamara,  as  much  as  if  ye  was  the  only  man 

in  the  world.' 

"  But  last  week  I  just  wanted  to  go  and  see  the  man 

that  kapes  the  place  I  used  often  to  get  dhrink  in,  and 

who  'd   give   me  the  loan  of  his  sidewalk  afterward. 

So  I  wint  down  and  wint  in,  afther  sayin'  a  prayer  first. 

It  was  in  the  mornin',  an'  there  was  nobody  ilse  there ; 

so  I  wint  up  to  him  quite  bowld.     '  How  do  ye  do, 

Misther  O'Brien?'   says    I.     Then  I  see   he   didn't 

know  me,  —  it  was  sort  o'  dark  in  the  basement,  — 

an'  says  I,   'Have  ye  seen   a  man  round   lately  by 

the  name  o'  Macnamara?' 

"  Says  he,  '  No,  I  guess  the  fillow  's  tuck  up,  or  is 

dead  ;  but  it 's  small  matter,  for  he  was  good  for  naught 

and  nothin','  says  he. 

"'Did  he  dhrink?'  says  I. 

"  '  He  did,'  says  he  ;  'he  was  always  dhrunk.' 

"  Thin,  forgittin'  mesilf,  says  I,  '  And  if  dhrink  made 

me   good   for   naught,  why  did  ye  fill  me   wid  it  ? ' 

says  I. 

" '  Macnamara,  man,'  says  he,  '  this  is  not  you  ? ' 
"  Says  I,  lookin'  him  in  the  eye,  '  It 's  mesilf.' 
"Says  he,  'Sit  down,  man,  an'  take  somethin',  an' 

tell    me    about    your    good    luck,    seein'    as   we   are 

alone.' 

"  Thin,  remimberin'  what  the  tacher  told  me,  says  I, 


268  Inside  our  Gate. 

quite  quiet  like,  '  We  're  not  alone ;  there 's  one  wid 
me,'  says  I. 

"  Thin  he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  scared,  an'  says 
he,  '  Who  's  here  ? '  kind  o'  whisperin'  like. 

"  Says  I,  '  Some  one  that  was  n't  ashamed  to  come 
in  wid  me,  for  he  come  to  save  sinners  an'  cares  for 
'em,  —  the  one  who  has  made  me  over,  clane  widin  and 
widout.  He  's  standin'  here  by  your  side  an'  lookin' 
at  ye  ;  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  his  name.' 

" '  Macnamara,'  says  he,  '  ye  scare  me ;  have  yer 
lost  yer  wits  ? ' 

" '  No,'  says  I,  '  I  've  found  'em.' 

"So  I  talked  and  told  him  all  that  had  befell  me; 
and  whin  I  came  away  I  says,  '  Now  I  Ve  no  grudge 
to  ye,  an'  every  day  I  'm  askin'  the  Lord  to  lead  ye 
out  of  this  place,  an'  he  will.'  An'  I  come  away  leavin' 
him  starin'.  But  me  tacher  said  I  was  so  simple  she 
was  afeared  to  have  me  callin'  round  on  me  old 
friends ;  so  I  was  a-wonderin'  what  I  could  do  for 
the  Lord  whin  the  home  missionary  jintleman  came 
along. 

"  And  now  I  'm  to  tell  ye  of  the  great  elevation 
that 's  befell  me.  Ye  remimber  —  of  course  ye  do  — 
the  missionary  jintleman  from  out  Wist  that  prached 
before  ye,  'a  wake  last  Sunday.  Ye  know  he  told 
about  the  poor  craturs.  that 's  a-comin'  all  the  time 


Inside  our  Gate.  269 

from  across  the  says  to  sittle  near  him,  till  they  are 
quite  thick  under  his  fate.  Well,  that  avenin'  I  wint 
an'  talked  to  our  minister  and  to  the  missionary  jintle- 
man,  an'  tould  him  I  wanted  to  go  out  an'  hilp  him. 
Says  I,  '  I  '11  take  care  of  your  horse,  an'  shovel  snow, 
an'  I  can  scrub  floors  for  your  wife,'  —  for  ye  remimber 
he  tould  that  his  wife  could  git  nobody  to  hilp  her. 
An'  says  I,  '  I  can  do  some  cookin','  —  for,  ladies  and 
jintlemin,  ye  see  I  Ve  been  helper  at  hotels  and  board- 
in'-houses,  an'  I  know  well  how  to  do  housework. 
Says  I  to  him,  '  I  Ve  got  clo'es  enough  to  last  me  me 
lifetime,  thanks  to  D'acon  Mason  an'  his  son  an"  his 
son-in-law,  —  so  that  will  cost  nothin'.' 

"  Now  perhaps,  ladies  and  jintlemin,  ye  think  I  'm 
not  aqual  to  the  work,  but  I  '11  just  prove  it  to  ye. 
Besides  bein'  helper  in  the  hotels,  I  've  been  a  deal 
about  stables,  an'  I  've  taken  care  of  race-horses,  — 
for  race-horses,  ye  mind,  is  very  delicate  an'  needs 
great  care.  Why,  ye  Ve  all  heard  of  the  Surrey  Lass, 
the  bay  mare  that  tuck  the  prize  at  the  Sheepshead- 
Bay  race,  three  years  gone,  against  the  Black  Prince. 
They  'd  heavy  odds  on  her,  ye  mind.  Well,  lit  me 
till  ye,"  —  his  tone  grew  proud  and  he  straightened 
himself  up,  — "  well,  I  had  charge  entire  of  her  whin- 
iver  the  trainer  was  away.  She  'd  come  to  me  quite 
jintle.  Whin  I  'd  say,  '  Give  us  yer  fut,  Lass,'  she  'd 


270  Inside  our  Gate. 

hold  out  her  forefut  like  a  dog  an'  rub  her  cheek  on 
me,  an'  whining  whin  she  hear  me  v'ice.  Oh,  she  war 
a  fine  mare,  slinder  as  a  wilier-wisp  war  she  !  Ah, 
ladies  and  jintlemin,  all  this  time  I  war  bein'  fitted  for 
the  Lord's  work,  and  niver  did  I  know  it. 

"  Now,  ye  see  if  I  can  go  to  the  Wist  wid  the 
missionary  jintleman  next  wake,  what  a  foine  space 
of  time  he  '11  have  for  prayin'  an'  prachin',  an'  me 
a-groomin'  the  horse  an'  a-shovellin'  the  snow.  For 
mesilf,  I  can  jist  slip  into  any  corner  in  a  barn  or  a 
shed  to  say  me  own  prayers.  Thin,  when  the  mis 
sionary  sees  any  wretched  cratur  just  good  for  naught, 
he  can  pint  him  at  me,  sayin',  '  Yon  once  war  dirtier 
an'  drunkener  an'  wickeder  nor  you,  an'  look  at  him 
now,  —  by  the  love  o'  God,  clane  widin  an'  widout.' 
Thin  the  cost  of  me  kapin'  will  be  small,  through  me 
appetite  bein'  but  moderate,  me  havin'  a  wake  stomach. 
And  if  I  can  go  wid  him,  —  and  he  's  wantin'  me,  — 
it  will  kape  me  from  fallin',  kapin'  close  to  him  a- 
carryin'  tracts  round  and  the  loike.  Oh,  and  be 
sides  money  for  me  kapin',  I  'd  have  to  have  money 
for  me  ticket  out, — just  out,  for  I'll  bide  forever 
whin  I  gits  there.  D'acon  Mason,  won't  ye  pass  the 
box?" 

Deacon  Mason  rose,  and  said  that  as  our  poor 
friend  had  been  so  anxious  to  go,  and  as  he  could 


Inside  our  Gate.  271 

be  of  great  service  to  the  overworked  missionary, 
the  church  had  decided  to  send  him ;  and  that 
therefore  there  was  no  need  of  a  collection,  but 
that  he  hoped  the  good  wishes  and  prayers  of  all 
who  sympathized  with  one  who  had  fought  down 
his  evil  habits  would  go  with  him. 

Poor  Macnamara  put  his  head  down  and  burst  into 
tears.  "  'Deed,  D'acon  Mason,"  said  he,  "  I  '11  ne'er 
forgit  ye  dead  or  alive." 

During  the  paus.e  and  rustle  of  conversation  that 
followed  the  dramatic  ending  of  poor  Macnamara's 
speech,  I  slipped  out  of  the  hall  and  went  home. 

I  found  Cousin  Edward  in  the  parlor.  His  nap  had 
completely  cured  his  headache  ;  he  lay  on  the  sofa 
and  looked  cheerful,  —  too  cheerful. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he,  "if  this  next  hour  was  the 
hour  of  the  meeting,  I  could  speak  easily.  I  feel  just 
in  a  speaking  mood." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  said  I,  mournfully,  "  and  every 
thing  went  wrong.  It  was  queer  that  you  had  such  a 
headache  to-night." 

Allan  hastened  to  say  that  no  one  ever  urged  a  head 
ache  upon  himself. 

"  It  was  certainly  strange,"  said  Cousin  Edward ; 
"  and  I  Ve  just  thought  of  the  cause.  To-day,  as  I 
was  hurrying  along  the  street,  I  met  a  German  gentle- 


272  Inside  our  Gate. 

man  who  was  very  anxious  to  speak  to  me  on  a  matter 
of  business.  I  said  I  had  n't  one  minute,  but  he  was 
very  urgent  and  almost  forced  me  into  a  little  restau 
rant  near  where  we  stood,  saying,  '  While  we  lunch  we 
can  talk.'  He  ordered  a  sandwich  and  lager  beer.  I 
had  no  time  to  wait  till  meat  was  cooked ;  I  was  warm, 
and  the  beer  looked  cool,  and  —  well  —  I  took  a  glass 
too." 

"Lager  beer?"  I  asked  grimly. 

"  Yes ;  I  really  have  n't  tasted  a  glass  in  sixteen 
years  before,  and  it  entirely  upset  me.  I  don't  think 
I  ever  had  a  worse  headache  in  my  life ;  it  must  have 
been  that." 

So  my  temperance  lecturer  had  been  drinking ! 
"  Well,  well,  well,"  thought  I,  "  this  is  a  strange 
world !  I  don't  care  if  his  old  head  does  ache. 
Not  to  drink  for  sixteen  years,  and  then  to  spoil 
my  convention  ! " 

I  put  this  thought  in  words  when  I  was  in  my  room 
with  Allan. 

Said  he,  "You  ought  to  be  glad  it  made  his  head 
ache,  because  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  him,  and  raise  him 
to  an  honored  manhood.  I  'm  sure  you  treated  him 
very  well;  that  was  a  good  dinner.  But  it's  always 
the  way  with  prodigal  sons.  Till  the  dinner  came  on 
the  table,  I  must  confess  that  I  regretted  that  fine 


Inside  our  Gate.  273 

brown  turkey  that  I  saw  you  sending  off  to  the  tem 
perance  convention  this  morning.  But  virtue  was  re 
warded  ;  for  I,  the  saint,  ate  up  the  dinner  that  was 
cooked  for  your  sinner." 

It  made  me  quite  angry  the  next  morning,  when  my 
relative  —  he  was  only  a  married-on  relative  —  bade  us 
good-by,  thanking  me  for  my  kind  care,  and  saying  the 
night's  sleep  in  the  country  had  quite  refreshed  him, 
and  went  cheerfully  away,  holding  his  silk  umbrella, 
like  a  cane,  by  its  silver  handle,  and  turning  occa 
sionally  to  shake  it  back  at  Elinor,  who  was  watching 
him  from  the  parlor  window.  I  wanted  to  shake  my 
fist  at  him. 

I  felt  injured  all  day.  I  felt  depressed,  as  if  I  kept 
an  Inebriate's  Home,  or  a  lager-beer  saloon. 

What  the  convention  accomplished  we  could  not 
know,  of  course  ;  but  when  the  best  is  done  that  one 
can  do,  there  it  must  be  left. 

Two  years  passed  after  the  unusual  temperance 
meeting,  and  Macnamara  had  almost  faded  from  my 
memory,  when  one  evening  "  D'acon  Mason "  called 
on  us,  and  after  speaking  of  that  memorable  occasion, 
showed  us  a  letter  from  the  missionary  with  whom 
Macnamara  had  volunteered  to  act  as  an  assistant  in 
practical  Christianity.  This  was  what  he  said  about 
the  warm-hearted  Irishman  :  — 
18 


274  Inside  our  Gate. 

"After  Macnamara's  coming  to  us,  life  put  on  a  new 
face.  He  at  once  took  the  heavy  housework  from  my 
feeble  wife,  going  at  it  with  such  enthusiasm'  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  see  him  about.  My  boys  followed  him 
around  from  morning  till  night,  —  his  sweet  temper  and 
merry  ways,  his  whistling  and  feats  of  jumping  making 
him  an  engaging  comrade.  I  watched  him  carefully, 
knowing  that  he  had  been  picked  out  of  a  slough,  but 
never  did  I  know  of  a  low  word  or  act.  He  was,  as  he 
often  said,  'clane  widin  and  widout.'  He  seemed  over 
whelmed  with  gratitude  for  a  home  and  kind  friends,  and 
never  seemed  satisfied  that  he  had  done  enough  for  us. 

"  Last  Winter  one  of  our  poor  neighbors  on  the  prairie 
died,  and  his  wife  and  child  were  thrown  upon  me  to  sup 
port  until  we  could  hear  from  their  friends  in  England. 
Poor  Mac,  as  we  called  him,  rose  to  be  a  hero.  He  got 
odd  jobs  in  the  village  ;  he  stinted  himself  of  his  food,  till 
I  stopped  that;  and  in  every  way  he  tried  through  the 
Winter  to  save  and  earn,  that  the  burden  might  not  fall 
too  heavily  on  me,  nor  the  care  on  my  wife.  The  baby 
was  a  sickly  little  thing,  and  often  he  would  w;ilk  the  floor 
with  it  at  night,  up  and  down  the  little  sitting-room,  to 
give  its  mother  rest.  We  all  loved  the  poor  fellow  ;  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  much  we  loved  him. 

"  In  the  Spring,  the  woman  went  back  to  England;  and 
then  we  began  to  notice  that  Mac  did  not  seem  as  strong 
as  before.  He  had  a  hacking  cough,  and  a  color  in  his 
cheeks  that  alarmed  me.  We  tried  to  save  him  in  every 
way ;  but  it  was  of  no  use,  work  he  would.  We  sometimes 
cheated  ourselves  into  the  belief  that  he  was  suffering 
from  a  heavy  cold.  Just  a  week  ago,  one  morning,  he 


Inside  our  Gate,  275 

did  not  come  down  to  make  the  kitchen  fire,  and  I  went 
to  his  room.  He  lay  quietly,  with  his  cheek  upon  his 
hand,  in  that  deep  rest  which  must  come  to  all  of  us. 

"  I  can  assure  you  there  was  grief  and  sincere  sorrow 
in  our  house  that  day,  and  ever  since.  I  thought  the 
boys  would  break  their  very  hearts  over  their  loss ;  and 
as  for  me  and  my  wife,  we  know  that  we  shall  never  see 
in  this  world  a  purer,  nobler,  more  devoted  soul  than 
Macnamara,  nor  can  we  meet  with  a  greater  loss  until 
our  own  family  is  divided  by  death." 


XV. 

AT  last  we  were  settled  in  our  little  seashore  house 
again.  All  sweet  and  cheerful  it  was,  with  fresh 
cream-colored  paper  and  paint.  I  feel  almost  equal 
to  a  crusade  against  dark  paint  and  paper.  A  dark, 
sunless  room  and  a  light,  sunny  one  lower  or  raise 
my  spirits  as  quickly  as  a  change  of  weather  affects 
the  little  woman  in  the  barometer. 

The  fire  was  kindled  again  upon  our  hearth,  —  for  we 
always  have  a  little  fire,  just  for  the  sake  of  its  cheery 
company,  whenever  the  days  are  cool  enough  to  fur 
nish  the  least  pretext ;  the  very  breeze  we  left  there 
the  Summer  before  came  with  its  greeting  through 
doors  and  windows ;  the  blue  bay  lay  in  peaceful 
beauty,  —  it  was  all  there.  When  the  curtains  should 
be  hung  and  the  rugs  laid  down,  we  could  say,  —  we 
always  do,  —  "This  is  last  Summer." 

And  now  Pauline  was  to  come  to  visit  us.  She  was 
coming  from  the  mountains,  where  she  had  been  with 
a  party  of  artists  for  a  month  or  two.  Though  the 
house  was  in  order,  I  knew  I  should  feel  unsettled  till 


Inside  our  Gate.  277 

she  got  there ;  for  nearly  every  cottage  at  the  "  Open 
Sea,"  a  mile  away,  had  an  artist  for  a  guest,  and  as  yet 
I  had  none.  Sketching-umbrellas  were  thick  as  toad 
stools  in  the  village,  and  I  wanted  an  artist  to  set 
forth  from  my  cottage  too,  every  day,  with  a  big  um 
brella  and  a  stool,  and  settle  down  in  the  field,  or  by 
the  seaside,  as  if  making  a  morning  call  on  Nature. 

Now,  our  town  might  become  immortal  through  me, 
by  means  of  her.  Its  byways  and  hedges  might  shine 
on  the  Exhibition  walls  that  year ;  and  even  our  own 
portraits,  in  her  sketches,  might  hang  upon  the  walls 
of  the  great. 

I  knew  the  very  places  for  Pauline  to  sketch. 
There  was  Mrs.  Mason's  old  low,  straggling  house  on 
the  corner,  with  its  weather-stained  sheds  stuck  on 
here  and  there,  as  if  all  the  sheds  that  had  no  object 
in  life  had  just  drifted  up  and  stranded  there.  The 
sheds  were  vine-covered,  and  about  the  roofs  flocks 
of  white  pigeons  were  always  hovering.  Mrs.  Mason 
must  come  out  too,  with  her  blue  apron  filled  with 
corn,  to  feed  the  pigeons.  Then  the  winding  road 
and  the  willows  and  the  peep  of  bay,  —  ah,  everything 
was  there  that  ought  to  be  there. 

And  then,  I  wanted  Pauline  to  paint  Mrs.  Darling's 
big  pink  pitcher,  crowded  full  of  "  bouncing  Bets,"  and 
grasses.  Pauline  almost  paints  the  fragrance  into  her 


278  Inside  our  Gate. 

flowers.  The  bouncing  Bets  are  sweet  as  honey,  and 
every  shade  of  pink  lives  in  them.  I  knew  one  thing  : 
I  would  n't  call  that  picture  —  Heaven  forbid  !  —  "A 
Symphony  in  Pink  ! "  We  would  just  call  it  its  true 
name,  "Aunt  Betsey's  Posies." 

I  have  still  another  picture  that  I  saw  in  my  room 
only  last  night,  that  I  want  Pauline  to  paint  some  day : 
Elinor's  little  old  shoes  thrown  down  by  her  red  stock 
ings,  and  a  great  handful  of  withered  flowers,  —  the 
last  harvest  of  her  little  day.  "The  Reaper's  Work 
is  Done,"  I  shall  name  that.  Pauline  will  sell  it  to 
the  first  mother  that  walks  into  the  Exhibition ;  and 
she  '11  have  to  paint  at  least  half  a  dozen  copies  for  the 
mothers  that  will  want  to  buy  it. 

So  the  afternoon  came  that  was  to  bring  Pauline. 
Allan  and  I  drove  to  the  station,  seven  miles  away, 
to  meet  her.  Halfway  there,  we  found  a  brown  vel 
veteen  coat  in  the  road.  Neither  of  us  wanted  a 
velveteen  coat,  but  of  course  we  picked  it  up.  The 
pockets  were  empty.  I  said  it  was  a  good  coat,  and 
after  a  little  brushing,  we  could  lay  it  away  with  Uncle 
Joseph's  vest  and  the  "and  so  forths ; "  but  we  must 
try  to  find  its  owner  first. 

"  I  wonder  whose  mantle  it  can  be,"  said  Allan  ;  "  I 
should  be  afraid  to  put  it  on." 

Six   ladies   got  out  of  the   train,  but   no    Pauline. 


Inside  our  Gate.  279 

Strange ;  this  was  n't  like  Pauline ;  but  then  people 
are  continually  doing  things  unlike  themselves. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  go  home. 
During  the  last  half-hour  of  our  drive  the  wind  rose, 
and  black  clouds  covered  the  sky :  later  the  rain 
came  pouring  down.  When  we  reached  the  house,  I 
ran  as  fast  as  I  could  from  the  carriage  into  my  little 
parlor,  while  Allan  drove  off  with  the  horse. 

There,  in  my  own  special  chair,  beside  a  bright  fire 
which  had  not  been  lighted  when  we  went  out,  sat  a 
young  man  reading  my  magazine.  I  knew  how  the 
big  bear  felt  when  he  saw  Silver  Hair.  The  young 
man  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  said  he  had  ventured 
to  take  refuge  in  my  cottage,  as  he  had  been  caught 
in  the  rain  without  an  umbrella,  and  was  a  mile  from 
the  "  Open  Sea,"  where  he  was  staying ;  and  that  my 
maid  had  kindly  lighted  the  fire.  His  name,  he  told 
me,  was  David  Wilson.  Before  long  Allan  appeared, 
and  soon  after  that  tea  was  on  the  table.  As  the  rain 
was  still  pouring,  we  took  our  guest  out  to  tea.  We 
told  him  of  our  fruitless  errand,  —  that  we  had  gone  to 
fetch  a  beautiful  young  lady  home,  and  had  only 
come  back  with  a  velveteen  coat  with  no  money  in 
the  pockets,  that  we  had  found  in  the  road. 

"  It  must  be  my  coat,"  said  he ;  and,  sure  enough, 
when  Mary  brought  it  from  my  bundle  of  shawls  it 


280  Inside  our  Gate. 

proved  to  be  his  coat,  which  he  had  lost  from  a  car 
riage  that  very  afternoon.  It  was  funny  that  while 
we  were  bringing  the  coat  to  its  owner  the  owner 
had  come  to  his  coat.  "  It  was  like  Bo-peep  and 
her  sheep's  tails,"  said  little  Douglas. 

But  I  was  anxious  about  Pauline.  What  if  she  had 
missed  her  train  and  should  come  on  the  four  o'clock 
train  and  arrive  after  dark  and  get  lost? 

"  I  '11  warrant  Pauline  will  manage,"  said  Allan. 
"  In  all  probability,  however,  she  will  wait  till  the 
train  to-morrow,  and  we'll  drive  over  for  her  again." 

About  an  hour  after  this  Mr.  Wilson  departed  with 
his  velveteen  coat,  and  sheltered  under  my  umbrella. 
Half- past  eight.  "  No  Pauline  to  night,"  we  said.  It 
was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  the  sound  of  wheels 
roused  me  from  the  book  I  was  reading.  It  was  still 
raining. 

"  Hark  !  yes,  that  is  the  stage  !  it  has  stopped.  Put 
a  light  in  the  window,  —  no,  hold  it  in  the  door 
way  !  It 's  Pauline's  voice.  Leave  the  trunk  on  the 
piazza  !  Allan,  take  the  bag  !  So  you  are  here  at  last, 
Pauline  !  What  was  the  matter?  Did  you  lose  the 
train?" 

"  Oh,  let  her  have  something  to  eat  before  she  says 
anything,"  said  Allan.  He  pulled  a  little  table  to  the 
fire.  Mary  soon  brought  in  a  tray  with  a  hot  supper. 


Inside  our  Gate.  281 

I  lighted  new  candles  in  the  tall  silver  candlesticks. 
Allan  poked  the  fire  till  it  flamed  and  crackled. 

"  Now  eat  and  drink,"  said  I ;  "  but  bite  as  fast  as 
you  can  and  remain  a  lady,  for  I  am  waiting  to  hear. 
How  came  the  stage  to  be  so  late  ?  " 

Pauline  stood  before  the  fire  warming  her  hands. 
How  pretty  she  looked  !  _  I  was  proud  of  my  little 
cousin. 

"  Before  I  taste  my  supper,"  said  she,  "  I  must  tell 
my  adventure.  I  missed  my  train  this  afternoon,  and 
had  to  come  down  in  this  late  one.  I  remembered 
you  told  me  that  you  lived  at  the  Bay,  so  I  thought  it 
would  be  easy  enough  to  find  you.  The  driver  said 
your  cottage  was  near  the  hotel.  He  dropped  pas 
sengers  here  and  there  at  little  cottages  and  cross 
roads,  and  then  coursed  on  till  he  came  through 
the  darkness  to  a  lighted  hotel.  Then  he  said  he 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  that  your  cottage  was  a 
mile  away;  but  he  said  he  would  bring  me  here 
as  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his  supper.  He  said  he 
had  n't  had  time  to  get  a  mouthful  since  noon,  and 
it  seemed  only  reasonable  that  he  should  want  his 
supper,  at  eight  o'clock.  He  had  to  take  off  my 
trunk  to  get  at  another  one,  and  he  set  it  on  the 
piazza.  I  went  into  the  parlor  to  wait. 

"After  I  'd  waited  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 


282  Inside  oiir  Gate. 

I  went  to  the  office  to  inquire  about  him,  and,  behold, 
the  clerk  said  the  stage-driver  had  gone  !  '  I  guess 
he  must  have  forgotten  you,'  he  said ;  and  there  I  was, 
trunk  and  all.  I  was  in  despair.  I  did  n't  want  to 
drive  round  the  country  with  some  strange  man,  in 
the  darkness  and  the  rain,  so  I  thought  my  best 
plan  was  to  stay  there  all  night,  and  find  you  in 
the  morning. 

"  When  I  asked  for  a  room,  the  clerk  said  there  was 
'not  a  vacant  one  in  the  house.  '  But  I  must  have 
one,'  I  said.  Then  he  stepped  out  on  the  piazza,  as 
if  to  consult  his  guiding  star,  and  pretty  soon  came 
back  to  say  that  I  could  have  the  room  of  a  young 
man  who  had  gone  across  the  Sound  for  the  night. 
So  up  I  went  to  take  off  my  hat,  and  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  feeling  like  a  perfect  intruder, 
with  the  young  man's  things  scattered  all  about  the 
room,  when  a  rap  came  on  the  door,  and  I  opened 
it  to  behold  a  handsome  young  man.  Of  course  I 
thought  it  was  the  one  who  owned  the  room,  come 
to  turn  me  out ;  but,  no,  he  said  he  had  come  to 
take  me  to  my  cousins ;  that  you  expected  me  this 
afternoon,  and  were  not  looking  for  me  to-night.  He 
said  the  stage  had  gone,  but  that  there  was  a  little 
'  barge  '  at  the  door  which  was  going  to  the  village, 
and  that  he  would  take  me  to  your  door  safely.  He 


Inside  our  Gate.  283 

helped  me  on  with  my  sack,  took  my  bag,  and  es 
corted  me  to  the  barge,  —  one  of  Cleopatra's,  I  sup 
pose, —  and  got  in  with  me,  and  landed  me  safely 
here.  He  said  he  had  left  your  cottage  only  an  hour 
ago.  Now,  Mary,  who  is  that  young  man?" 

Then  I  told  Pauline  all  I  knew  of  her  Mercury. 
"How  soon  virtue  is  rewarded,"  said  I,  "and  in 
what  overflowing  measure  it  has  come  to  me  !  I  find 
an  old  velveteen  coat  for  him,  and  he  finds  Pauline 
for  me.  What  can  I  do  for  him  ?  I  '11  give  him  that 
umbrella  he  borrowed." 

"  Perhaps  he  'd  rather  have  Pauline,"  said  Allan. 

Pauline  laughed.  "  No  lover  for  me,"  she  said ; 
"hard  cash  is  what  I  want." 

"  Pauline,  you  are  not  engaged  to  a  rich  old  man, 
are  you,"  said  I,  gazing  sternly  at  her,  as  Allan  went 
out  to  look  after  her  trunk,  —  "  some  forlorn,  glass- 
eyed,  false  old  man,  just  to  get  to  Europe  ?  " 

"  Mercy,  no,  Mary !  But  I  have  had  an  offer,  — 
my  second.  The  first  was  a  young  man  who  kept  an 
apothecary's  shop  in  our  town.  One  day  I  went  in 
there,  —  I  'd  been,  of  course,  dozens  of  times  before ; 
he  went  to  the  same  church  too.  I  bought  a  hair 
brush  and  comb,  and  he  insisted  on  not  taking  any 
pay  for  them.  I  just  laid  down  the  money  and  walked 
out  of  the  shop  very  stiffly.  The  next  day  I  got  a  let- 


284  Inside  our  Gate. 

ter  from  him  in  a  blue-lined  envelope,  with  an  offer 
of  marriage." 

"  And  this  one,  Pauline  ?  " 

"  Well,  this  one  was  from  a  little  pale  Episcopal 
minister,  with  a  big  head  and  curly  hair,  —  a  widower, 
with  a  little  girl  about  seven,  and  small  twins.  Think 
of  it !  I  heard  he  had  had  six  churches." 

"All  at  once?" 

"No,  he  had  moved  six  times.  Now,  I  like  to 
travel,"  said  Pauline  ;  "  but  I  would  n't  care  to  take 
my  furniture  and  the  twins  every  time.  Miss  Wilder 
said  if  I  married  him  I  'd  have  to  have  my  wedding- 
presents  put  on  casters  !  I  did  n't  care  a  scrap  for 
him,  but  I  've  felt  like  a  mean  sneak  ever  since,  be 
cause  he  did  need  some  one  dreadfully  to  straighten 
out  his  affairs,  and  I  know  I  could  have  done  it 
beautifully.  I  can't  get  over  the  look  of  that  poor 
child  of  his,  who  .came  to  church  with  her  dress 
buttoned  in  front  instead  of  behind.  It  made  the 
sleeves  backside  front,  and  a  perfect  fright  of  her  ; 
and  she  was  a  cunning  little  soul  too.  I  suppose 
her  father  dressed  her,  poor  man.  I  see  that  I  am 
destined  to  be  like  that  girl  who  had  twenty  offers, 
but  all  of  them  ineligible." 

After  Pauline  had  had  her  tea,  we  sat  round  the  fire 
till  it  died  away,  and  talked,  while  the  rain  still  fell. 


Inside  our  Gate.  285 

Then  I  took  Pauline  upstairs  to  introduce  her  to  her 
little  room.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  with  white  cur 
tains  at  the  windows,  a  white-draped  dressing-table,  a 
queer  little  window  opening  on  the  stairway,  and  soft 
pink  roses  trailing  over  the  paper,  —  printed  roses,  of 
course. 

Then  I  repeated  a  good-night  couplet  adapted  for 
Pauline,  after  the  fashion  of  a  lady  we  had  heard  of, 
who  always  repeated  one  at  night  at  the  doors  of  her 
guests'  rooms, — 

"  Stranger,  sleep,  thy  car-fare  o'er  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking." 

The  next  day  Mr.  Wilson  came  to  return  the  um 
brella.  Dear  me,  how  things  do  turn  out !  he  was  an  ar 
tist  too,  it  seemed,  and  he  had  lived  four  years  abroad. 
Poor  little  Pauline  looked  envious  when  she  heard  that. 

He  sat  on  the  piazza  for  an  hour  to  get  acquainted. 
As  there  was  no  one  to  do  it  for  us,  we  told  him  who 
we  were,  and  he  told  us  who  he  was.  His  grandfather 
was  Scotch,  and  so  was  ours,  —  delightful  coincidence  ! 
We  asked  him  if  his  grandfather  was  a  "V.  P."  or  Free 
Church.  Our  grandfather  was  of  the  State  Church ; 
so  was  his  (he  said).  He  had  an  aunt  who  lived  in 
Essex  County,  Massachusetts,  and  we  had  an  uncle  in 
Suffolk  County. 


286  Inside  our  Gate. 

Then  we  took  a  turn  at  books.  Pauline  said  she 
never  felt  really  introduced  to  any  one  who  had  not 
read  "  Cousin  Phillis  "  and  "The  Village  on  the  Cliff." 
He  said  he  would  send  for  them  that  day. 

"  And  '  Posson  Jone' '  too,"  said  I.  "  I  never  in 
vite  any  one  to  dinner  who  does  not  read  and  love 
'  Posson  Jone'.'  " 

He  added  that  to  his  list. 

"  I  would  n't  stand  that,"  said  Allan,  who  sat  with 
his  paper  at  the  window  that  opened  on  the  piazza. 
"  You  can't  tell  where  those  two  women  will  lead 
you.  They  '11  put  Doddridge's  '  Rise  and  Progress,' 
or  Cruden's  Concordance  on  your  list  next,  or 
Townsend's  '  Arrangement,'  or  —  or  Blunt's  '  Coinci 
dences  ; '  they  have  n't  read  them,  but  they  '11  pretend 
they  have.  The  titles  of  books  that  they  know  from 
their  grandfather's  library  are  enough  to  make  one 
shudder." 

But  the  young  man  did  n't  seem  troubled. 

One  morning  he  came  to  show  us  a  lot  of  his 
sketches  that  he  had  sent  for.  They  were  really 
beautiful.  He  rose  in  Pauline's  estimation  as  the  mer 
cury  rises  when  one  lays  a  warm  finger  on  the  glass. 

He  showed  us  a  capital  sketch  of  an  old  Yankee 
skipper,  Captain  Millets.  He  said  some  of  his  friends 
were  very  anxious  to  go  to  the  little  seashore  town 


Inside  our  Gate.  287 

where  the  captain's  wife  took  boarders;  but  warned 
by  the  experience  of  some  who  went  the  Summer  be 
fore,  they  stipulated  for  a  private  table,  the  old  cap 
tain  being  such  an  incessant  talker  that  the  boarders 
were  fairly  exhausted,  rather  than  refreshed,  after  each 
meal. 

The  evening  they  arrived  (they  were  a  party  of 
young  men)  they  were  very  merry,  and  were  made 
merrier  by  hearing  a  smothered  laugh  follow  each  little 
joke  or  story.  The  laugh  seemed  to  proceed  from  a 
closet  in  the  dining-room,  the  door  of  which  was  ajar. 
They  found  out  afterward  that  the  old  gentleman 
whom  they  had  defrauded  of  their  society  at  table 
took  his  meals  at  the  same  hour  from  a  shelf  in  the 
"  buttry,"  as  he  called  it,  from  which  retreat  he  could 
hear  every  word  they  said. 

They  pretended  not  to  know  that  he  was  there,  and 
one  would  say,  "  I  must  ask  Captain  Millets  what  time 
I  must  be  off  for  the  fishing  to-morrow,"  when  at  once 
a  disembodied  voice  would  announce,  "  Half-past  four 
sharp,  and  bait  fixed  over  night." 

Some  one  said  one  morning  that  the  drive  must  be 
given  up,  as  the  sorrel  horse  was  sick.  "  He 's  dead," 
said  the  voice,  "  died  this  mornin'.  They  gin  him 
camphire  ;  they  had  n't  ought  to  gin  him  camphire." 

Another  day  one  of  them  said,  "  There  go  those 


288  Inside  our  Gate. 

three  old  maids  I  told  you  of,  — '  Trypheny '  and 
'  Tryphosy,'  and  —  I  don't  know  the  third  one's 
name."  Said  the  voice,  "  'T  ought  a  been  Tryagin, 
but  it  is  '  Malviny.'  " 

Sometimes  the  captain  stood  so  close  to  the  closet 
door,  in  his  eagerness  to  catch  every  word,  that  they 
could  hear  him  breathe.  There  was  something  irre 
sistibly  funny  in  the  dead  silence  that  reigned  when 
they  wickedly  lowered  their  voices  as  they  neared  the 
point  of  some  exciting  tale. 

When  Mr.  Wilson  asked  the  captain  to  sit  for  him, 
he  was  overjoyed,  and  came  in  half  an  hour  afterward, 
in  his  Sunday  clothes,  his  hair  all  plastered  down  with 
water,  and  his  face  polished  by  the  use  of  soap-suds 
and  a  crash  towel. 

"  I  meant  to  paint  him,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  "  in 
his  every-day  clothes,  whittling  out  a  boat,  or  tipped 
back  in  a  chair  reading  his  paper;  but  when  I  saw 
him,  I  put  him  right  in,  polish  and  all,  and  called 
the  sketch  *  Ready  for  his  Second  Courting.'  " 

"  Delightful !  "  said  I ;  "if  we  don't  go  abroad  next 
Summer,  Pauline,  we  must  go  there." 

We  praised  his  sketches,  every  one,  for  they  were 
charming. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  they  remind  me  of,"  I  said, 
holding  one  off  at  arm's  length,  — "  the  modern 


Inside  our  Gate.  289 

Spanish  pictures  that  I  saw  in  Paris.  I  shall  never 
forget  one  exquisite  little  Rico,  full  as  it  could  be  of 
sunshine  and  air  and  breezes,  —  a  little  living  minute 
caught  upon  the  paper." 

Mr.  Wilson  seemed  to  find  our  town  a  region 
full  of  inspiration ;  he  stayed  on  through  the  whole 
Summer,  and  as  we  knew  him  better  we  admired  still 
more  his  talent  as  an  artist  and  liked  him  as  a  friend. 

Now  I  might  well  feel  elated.  I  owned  two  artists, 
two  sketching-umbrellas,  and  two  stools ;  and  it  seemed 
sometimes  as  if  we  were  also  to  have  two  hearts  that 
beat  as  one,  for  somehow  it  happened  that  David  Wilson 
joined  all  our  parties.  We  walked,  we  drove  together, 
and  he  and  Pauline  sketched. 

The  last  drive  we  took  that  Summer  was  an  event 
ful  one.  We  set  off  in  an  open  beach-wagon  for 
Lake  Misconet,  miles  away,  the  artists  taking  all  their 
"  paraphernalia "  along.  We  were  to  stop  at  any 
symptom  of  inspiration  and  give  them  a  chance  to  put 
their  thoughts  on  paper.  Five  or  six  miles  from  home 
we  turned  into  a  charming  wood-road,  according  to 
my  direction,  and  after  a  mile  or  two  came  to  a  queer 
little  weather-stained  cottage  and  to  the  end  of  the 
road. 

"  To  think  of  owning  the  end  of  a  road  ! "  said 
Pauline,  —  "a  road  full  of  trees  and  light  and  shade  as 
19 


290  Inside  our  Gate. 

thick  as  leaves,  and  birds  and  squirrels  for  neighbors 
and  company  !  " 

It  was  a  lovely  spot,  —  a  little  clearing  of  an  acre 
or  two,  with  a  low  cottage  standing  close  to  the  road, 
a  little  turnstile  set  in  the  rickety  lichen-tinted  fence, 
a  millstone  for  a  doorstep,  the  yard  full  of  bouncing 
Bets,  and  cypress-weed  with  its  evil  color  and  rank 
growth  of  slimy  stem  creeping  beyond  the  yard  out 
into  the  ruts  of  the  road.  Not  a  soul  appeared  to  be 
about  the  place.  It  was  evidently  a  deserted  house. 

"  We  are  wrong,"  said  I ;  "we  should  have  taken 
the  road  toward  the  left." 

"  No  matter,"  cried  Pauline ;  "  our  souls  guided  us 
here,  for  I  feel  inspired." 

"  So  do  I,"  cried  Mr.  Wilson. 

"  Have  you  noticed,"  said  Allan  to  me  in  a  low 
tone,  "that  your  new  friend  always  seems  inspired 
when  Pauline  does?" 

Noticed  it !  anybody  who  was  not  blind  must  have 
seen  it.  But  I  only  said,  "Why?  Have  you?  Do 
you  think  he  is  interested  in  her?" 

"Well,  I  thought  so  to-day.  It  crossed  my  mind 
for  the  first  time  yesterday." 

"Allan,"  said  I,  in  a  whisper,  "don't  tell  Pauline 
that  I  told  you,  but  she  has  had  an  offer  this  Summer 
from  an  Episcopal  clergyman." 


Inside  our  Gate.  291 

"Whew  !  was  he  a  bishop?  "  said  Allan.  "  Did  she 
accept  him  ? '' 

"  She  has  n't  yet,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Wilson  had  already  set  up  his  easel,  and  was 
preparing  to  sketch.  Pauline  stood  near  him. 

"  Come,  Pauline,"  said  I,  "  let  us  peep  into  the 
windows  of  the  deserted  house  ;  how  solemn  it  seems, 
this  dead  home,  in  all  the  sunlight  of  the  Summer  !  " 

Through  one  window  we  saw  a  big  fireplace  black 
ened  by  the  smoke  of  many  years ;  bricks  lay  here 
and  there  on  the  floor,  as  they  had  fallen  from  the 
chimney.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  two  high- 
backed  rush-bottomed  chairs  facing  each  other.  In  the 
other  front  room  stood  a  red  bedstead,  with  a  ticking  of 
straw  on  it  and  a  comforter  half  on  the  floor.  A  chest 
of  drawers  was  in  one  corner,  from  the  open  drawer 
of  which  hung  a  dark  garment  of  some  sort.  On  the 
hearth  was  a  candlestick  holding  a  half-burned  candle. 
It  all  looked  very  dreary. 

"This  is  a  horrible  sort  of  a  deserted  house,"  said  I. 
"  A  deserted  house  should  be  empty.  I  can  almost 
see  two  old  ghosts  hobnobbing  in  those  chairs,  and  I 
believe  they  slept  in  this  bed,  and  have  been  trying 
on  the  old  people's  clothes ;  I  only  hope  they  have  not 
put  an  end  to  the  old  people  themselves.  I  believe 
they  are  looking  at  us  through  the  windows  now." 


29 2  Inside  our  Gate. 

"Flattening  their  noses  on  the  pane,"  said  Allan, 
who  had  joined  us ;  "  let  us  go  in.  Have  you  ever 
called  on  a  ghost;  should  we  send  cards?" 

He  pressed  the  iron  latch,  which  yielded  to  his 
touch,  and  threw  back  the  door. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  in,"  said  I. 

"  No,"  said  Pauline.  "  I  could  n't  face  a  ghost  in 
the  sunlight ;  a  ghost  in  the  moonlight  is  natural  and 
proper." 

"  Let  us  go  up  to  that  orchard  on  the  hill,"  said  I 
to  Allan,  thinking  the  artists  would  perhaps  do  as  well 
if  left  by  themselves. 

Such  old,  worn-out  apple-trees  they  were  !  The 
trunks  looked  like  weather-beaten  logs,  all  the  bark 
hidden  under  patches  of  yellow  and  green  lichen. 
They  were  too  old  and  tired  to  stand  straight.  They 
stood  knee-deep  in  grass,  and  seemed  companionable 
and  "  folksy,"  leaning  toward  one  another  and  whisper 
ing,  —  for  what  else  was  that  sound  among  the  leaves  ? 

» 

—  whispering  of  Springs  and  Autumns  long  gone,  when 
blossoms  were  fairer  than  nowadays,  and  fruit  was 
sweeter.  Under  one  tree  stood  a  broken  bee-hive ; 
apple-blossom  honey  those  bees  must  have  made, — 
food  fit  for  the  gods.  The  hive  was  sugar-loaf  shape, 
like  Dr.  Watts'  bee-hives,  "  where  little  Howdoth  used 
to  live,"  said  Allan. 


Inside  our  Gate.  293 

"The  artists  must  surely  make  a  sketch  of  this 
orchard,"  I  said,  looking  about  on  all  its  charming 
details. 

I  ought  to  have  married  an  artist  instead  of  a  lawyer ; 
what  a  prize  I  should  have  been  !  A  bunch  of  weeds, 
a  roadside  shed,  a  bend  in  the  road,  I  can  spy  their 
capabilities  at  once.  I  don't  have  to  wait,  as  some 
people  do,  to  see  from  a  mountain-top  all  the  king 
doms  of  the  earth  in  a  moment  of  time,  and  then  cry 
out,  "What  a  picture  that  would  make!"  —  which 
same  it  wouldn't. 

In  a  hollow  near  by  there  was  a  little  old  mill,  one 
side  of  which  had  given  up  trying  to  stand  any  longer, 
—  why  should  it,  since  the  wheel  had  ceased  to  turn 
and  the  stones  were  idle  ?  Deep  down  in  the  ravine 
the  dark  fozy  stream  loitered,  for  its  work  too  was  over, 
and  the  wild  grape-vines  reached  down  to  its  cool 
brink,  and  turning  back,  climbed  by  the  pine-trees 
on  the  bank  into  the  sunshine  and  the  wind. 

When  we  came  back  what  wonders  our  artist  had 
wrought !  He  had  conjured  up  a  little  house  on  his 
paper,  —  a  little  house,  already  ancient,  with  roof 
lichen-grown,  and  bulging  outside  chimney,  all  built 
and  old  in  sixty  minutes.  The  sky  was  there  too,  and 
great  drifts  of  cloud,  and  the  abele-tree  behind  the 
house  stretching  far  above  the  low  roof. 


294  Inside  our  Gate. 

As  we  told  him  about  the  orchard  and  the  mill,  he 
went  on  painting,  bringing  out  from  white  chaos  the 
well  and  the  well-sweep,  and  causing  the  grass  to 
spring  fresh  and  green  about  the  doorstep,  as  if  he 
had  rain  and  sunshine  at  his  call. 

"But  the  old  man  turning  your  'grin'-s'n,' "  asked 
Pauline,  "  where  is  he  ?  and  the  old  woman  '  shooing 
the  fowels,'  where  is  she?" 

"  Oh,  it  does  n't  need  people,"  said  Mr.  Wilson. 
"  I  shall  say  on  a  little  gilt  tablet  on  the  frame  that 
he 's  gone  to  the  Corner  for  groceries,  and  she 's 
'rode  along  of  him'  to  —  to — " 

"To  see  Sophrony's  baby,"  said  I ;  "and  really  one 
can  hardly  believe  this  reason  is  not  the  true  one.  The 
old  place  does  not  seem  like  a  deserted  house  in  this 
cheerful  light." 

"No,  it  should  have  been  sketched  at  dusk  for  a 
haunted  house,"  said  Pauline,  "and  just  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  a  face  at  that  window,  —  a  ghost's  face,  — 
and  called  'The  Dead  Home.' 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  "  I  like  it  best  as  it  is,  all  sun 
shiny.  I  would  like  to  get  into  the  picture  myself  and 
live  there." 

I  was  turning  away  just  at  this  moment  to  look  for 
Allan ;  but  as  I  went  I  thought  I  caught  in  earnest 
tones  something  like,  —  but  no,  I  shall  not  tell  even 


Inside  our  Gate.  295 

what  I  thought  I  heard,  —  and  when  from  a  safe  dis 
tance  I  looked  round,  the  artist  had  dropped  block  and 
brushes,  the  loose  sheets  from  his  portfolio  fluttered  on 
the  grass,  and  he  and  Pauline  were  disappearing  in  the 
wood-path  that  led  to  the  old  mill. 

I  went  back  and  picked  up  his  belongings ;  that  was 
only  fair.  It  was  their  day ;  I  'd  had  mine.  Allan  was 
sitting  on  the  well  platform,  sound  asleep,  and  sleeping 
sweetly  too,  for  his  fingers  were  between  the  leaves  of 
the  "Forum,"  so  that  he  knew  he  wasn't  wasting  his 
time. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  artists  came  back, 
with  excuses  about  having  been  to  look  at  the  mill 
we  had  said  they  ought  to  sketch ;  and  it  was  growing 
late  as  we  set  out  again  to  find  the  road  to  the  lake. 
Fortunately,  we  had  not  gone  very  far  out  of  our  way, 
and  a  few  miles  brought  us  there. 

The  lake  came  up  to  my  promise.  It  was  dotted 
with  well-wooded  islands,  and  little  sandy  beaches 
broke  the  line  of  overhanging  trees  along  its  shore. 

"  Now,"  said  Allan,  "  I  will  remark,  as  host,  that 
this  is  the  finest  lake  within  a  radius  of  twenty-five 
miles ;  that  it  has  seven  islands,  and  is  fourteen  miles 
in  circumference.  How  beautiful  the  reflection  of  the 
clouds  in  the  water,  —  also  of  the  trees  !  It  reminds 
me  of  Lucerne,  where  Tell  didn't  shoot  the  tyrant 


296  Inside  our  Gate. 

Gessler.  You  may  now  feel  easy,  friends,  my  duty  is 
done.  Fall  to,  eat,  and  be  merry  ! " 

We  stayed  there  till  dusk,  because  we  wanted  to 
show  Pauline  how  the  moon  looked  in  that  town. 
Suddenly,  as  we  were  driving  back,  a  chilly  gust  swept 
down  upon  us;  and  while  we  were  putting  on  our 
wraps,  it  grew  very  dark,  a  few  drops  fell,  and  then  a 
shower  pelted  upon  our  unsheltered  heads. 

"Shall  we  drive  on?"  asked  Allan.  "We  shall 
soon  be  drenched  at  this  rate.  There  is  no  house 
till  we  reach  the  village." 

"Why  not  take  shelter  in  our  deserted  house?" 
asked  Mr.  Wilson.  "We  are  near  that,  and  I  think 
we  are  in  for  a  real  storm." 

"  Oh,  do,"  cried  Pauline  ;  "  and  we  can  burn  up  the 
ghosts'  chairs  and  bedsteads.  Oh,  let  us  go  there; 
and  the  fun  of  it  too ! " 

In  a  little  time  we  were  entering  the  door  which 
Pauline  had  declined  to  enter  in  the  daylight  Mr. 
Wilson  had  matches. 

"  Here  is  the  ghosts'  candle,"  said  Pauline ;  "  we 
can  see  by  that  to  break  up  the  furniture." 

But  Mr.  Wilson  found  some  old  boards,  and  soon 
built  a  blazing  fire  on  the  hearth. 

"  Still,"  said  Pauline,  "  keep  an  eye  out.  I  feel  as 
if  the  ghosts  were  in  bed  in  the  next  room." 


Inside  our  Gate.  297 

Allan  and  Mr.  Wilson  went  out  to  put  the  horses 
in  the  barn.  The  rain  beat  against  the  uncurtained 
windows ;  the  dense  darkness  was  only  broken  by  the 
firelight  flashing  on  the  raindrops  which  beat  and 
beat  against  the  panes.  The  vines  by  the  windows 
tapped  and  rattled  on  the  glass ;  it  would  have  been 
eerie  enough,  had  we  not  expected  our  protectors 
back  in  a  few  minutes. 

Pauline  sprang  up  when  they  came  in.  "  Oh,"  she 
cried  in  a  pitying  tone,  looking  at  Mr.  Wilson's  wet 
coat,  "  how  wet  you  are  !  You  '11  surely  take  cold ; 
come  near  the  fire." 

Allan  looked  at  me.  "  I  am  as  wet  as  he  is,  and 
wetter  too,"  he  whispered;  "but  she  doesn't  worry 
about  my  coat.  I  bet  on  Wilson;  do  you  bet  on 
the  Episcopal  clergyman?" 

Allan  sat  on  a  box,  leaning  his  head  against  the  wall, 
and  under  the  combined  influence  of  fatigue  and  the 
warmth  of  the  fire,  was  beginning  to  doze.  Pauline 
also  had  subsided  in  a  corner ;  while  I  sat  on  one  side 
of  the  fireplace  talking  with  Mr.  Wilson,  who  sat  op 
posite  me  facing  a  door  which  led  into  a  back  room. 
The  warmth  was  evidently  affecting  him  too,  and  he 
had  hard  work  to  keep  his  eyes  open.  Suddenly, 
however,  they  opened  very  wide  and  stared  at  some 
thing  over  my  shoulder. 


298  Inside  our  Gate. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  turning  in  the  direction  of  the 
door. 

"  As  sure  as  I  'm  alive,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  "  I  saw 
the  head  of  an  old  woman,  in  a  nightcap,  peep  round 
the  corner  of  those  enclosed  stairs  that  lead  from  that 
room." 

"  Impossible,"  said  I ;  "  you  must  have  dreamed 
it."  He  shook  his  head.  Then  we  sat  in  perfect 
silence,  watching  the  old  stairs.  A  long  time  we 
looked,  so  long  in  fact  that  a  smile  was  beginning 
to  creep  into  my  eyes,  when  before  them  flashed  a 
glimpse  of  white, —  it  was  an  old  woman's  head  in  a 
nightcap  ! 

The  faintest  of  retreating  footsteps  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  We  looked  at  each  other  blankly. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  some  one  who  has  taken  shelter  here, 
like  ourselves,"  said  he. 

"But  old  ladies  caught  in  unexpected  tempests 
don't  have  their  nightcaps  along,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  the  old  woman  out  of  the  barome 
ter,"  said  Mr.  Wilson.  After  a  few  minutes  came  the 
faint  footfall,  and  just  as  the  old  woman's  face  ap 
peared,  Mr.  Wilson  and  I  stood  up.  As  she  saw  us 
she  gave  such  a  scream  of  terror  as  I  never  heard 
before,  and  scampered  up  the  stairs. 

Allan  and  Pauline  started  to  their  feet.     "  Oh,  what 


Inside  our  Gate.  299 

is  it?"  they  cried;  and  then  they  saw  that  we  were 
laughing. 

"  We  supposed  we  had  seen  a  ghost,"  said  I ;  "  and 
it  is  a  veritable  old  lady  who  came  downstairs  in  night 
gown  and  cap  to  peep  at  us." 

"Who  is  she?  "cried  Pauline.  "Have  you  asked 
her?" 

"You  speak  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Wilson  to  Pauline. 

"  Oh,  when  I  thought  it  was  a  ghost,"  said  I,  "  the 
most  proper  chill  stole  up  my  spine  and  froze  my 
veins  !  I  can  write  a  ghost-story  now." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Pauline,  in  a  reassuring 
voice,  as  she  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  "  we  are 
only  some  people  from  the  Bay  who  were  caught  in 
the  storm  and  came  here  for  shelter.  How  did  you 
come  here  ? " 

We  heard  a  voice  from  above  saying,  "  I  ain't 
scared,  seein'  there  is  wimmin  there  ;  but  you  'd  ought 
to  have  knocked.  That  wa'n't  no  way  to  walk  into 
my  house  and  make  a  fire  out  of  my  boards  'thout 
askin'  me." 

"  You  must  excuse  us,"  I  added.  "  We  were 
caught  in  the  rain,  miles  from  home,  and  we  did  n't 
know  you  lived  here.  We  thought  it  was  a  deserted 
house." 

"  'T  ain't  no  such  thing,"  said  the  old  woman,  indig- 


3OO  Inside  our  Gate. 

nantly ;  "  it 's  a  real  good  house.  We  've  lived  here 
forty  years  in  comfort,  and  never  seen  a  soul  except 
the  folks  we  knew  that  come  a  purpose  to  see  us ;  but 
now  I  sha'n't  take  no  more  comfort,  I  shall  be  so  afraid 
of  tramps.  When  we  come  home  to-day  and  found 
crumbs  on  the  doorstep  and  see  some  loose  papers 
round,  I  felt  sort  of  skittish  then." 

Soon  the  old  woman  appeared  downstairs  dressed. 
"  Mercy  on  us  ! "  said  she,  "  an'  so  you  thought  our 
house  was  deserted  ?  Well,  it  was,  sort  of.  We  Ve 
been  thinkin'  of  repairin'  for  some  time  along  back ; 
and  when  Sarah's  baby  come  and  I  had  to  be  there 
anyway,  I  said  to  father  he  'd  better  go  too,  and  go 
back  and  forth  to  feed  the  cow.  And  then  we 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  chance  to  repair,  and  so 
he  and  Sarah's  husband  come  about  a  week  ago  and 
carried  the  furniture  all  upstairs  to  get  ready  for  the 
carpenter;  and  then  it  was  such  a  long  way,  'bout 
five  miles,  for  father  to  be  going  over,  they  just  took 
the  cow  home  to  Sarah's,  and  the  hens.  I  knew 
things  was  n't  left  right,  because  men- folks  don't  know 
how,  and  I  said  I  must  come  over  this  afternoon 
and  see ;  and  we  brought  some  cooked  victuals  so 's 
to  stay  over  night,  and  we  're  going  back  to-morrow. 
We  'd  just  got  asleep  when  you  bust  in  the  door  and 
we  woke  up  in  a  dreadful  fright.  Father  he  said  I  'd 


Inside  our  Gate.  301 

better  lay,  but  I  could  n't  seem  to ;  but  I  was  scared 
when  I  see  that  young  man  stand  up  as  if  he  was 
goin'  to  ketch  me." 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  were  frightened,"  said  I. 

The  old  woman  was  very  curious  to  know  just  who 
we  were  and  our  names.  I  explained  to  her  as  best 
I  could. 

"And  these  folks,"  said  she,  "who  might  they  be? 
Is  that  your  wife  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  from  Pauline 
to  Mr.  Wilson. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  young  man,  coolly,  smiling  at 
Allan  and  me. 

"  Hush  !  "  cried  Pauline,  reproachfully. 

"  Hello,"  said  Allan,  in  a  stage  whisper  to  me,  "  I 
thought  she  was  engaged  to  an  Episcopal  bishop  ! " 

"  She  did  n't  tell  me  so,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  smiling 
and  taking  Pauline's  hand.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  chosen  a  more  formal  time  and  way,"  he  went 
on,  "  to  ask  your  approval  as  your  cousin's  protec 
tors,  but  the  exigencies  of  the  moment  seem  to  be 
too  much  for  me." 

Well,  we  were  not  exactly  surprised,  but  it  did  seem 
rather  sudden.  However,  we  really  liked  David  Wilson, 
and  we  gave  the  young  people  our  blessing,  while  the 
old  woman  looked  on  in  some  astonishment  at  the  scene 
which  was  taking  place  in  her  unfrequented  cottage. 


302  Inside  our  Gate. 

The  rain  ceased  about  an  hour  after  this,  and  we 
departed,  greatly  to  the  old  woman's  regret.  We  left 
some  money  with  her  to  pay  for  "  busting  in  the 
door,"  and  for  the  fright  we  had  given  her. 

I  thought  it  was  my  duty,  as  a  married  woman,  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  Pauline  on  this  important  occa 
sion,  so  I  went  to  her  room  that  very  night  I  seated 
myself  in  a  little  rocking-chair,  and  she  sat  before  me 
taking  out  her  hairpins,  and  shaking  her  curly  hair 
about  her. 

"  My  dear,"  said  I,  "  I  feel  it  is  my  duty,  now  that 
you  are  engaged,  to  tell  you  that  life  is  something 
besides  play." 

"Yes  'm,"'said  Pauline,  "  so  I  Ve  heard." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,"  I  went  on,  "  the  very  best  of 
men  of^en  have  peculiarities  which  are  hard  to  put  up 
with ;  even  Allan,  who  you  know  is  perfect,  had  little 
ways  one  had  to  get  used  to,  or  —  well,  for  instance, 
he  comes  always  and  complains  if  his  stockings  are 
rolled  up  in  pairs  in  his  drawer  instead  of  being 
spread  out  one  upon  another,  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  If  such  a  trial  as  that  should  come  to  me,"  said 
Pauline,  "  I  should  just  give  way  under  it ;  but  I  hope 
I  sha'n't  be  called  upon  to  bear  it ;  yes  'm,  I  hope 
not." 

"  Don't  laugh,  Pauline  !     Listen ;    I  knew  a  man 


Inside  our  Gate.  303 

once  who  just  would  do  one  thing  perfectly  hateful, 
and  only  one.  There  was  plenty  of  closet  room  in 
the  house,  and  yet  he  would  stand  a  pair  of  long- 
legged  boots  in  the  corner  of  his  wife's  dressing-room  ; 
would,  despite  all  she  could  say.  What  would  you  do 
in  such  a  case  as  that  ?  " 

"  Paint  them  red  and  fill  them  with  dried  grasses," 
she  replied  in  her  jaunty  way. 

"  I  am  not  joking,  you  understand,"  said  I. 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  she. 

"  Then  I  knew  a  man  who  saved  a  girl  from  drown 
ing.  It  was  a  very  brave  act  and  nearly  cost  him  his 
life.  Then  he  fell  in  love  with  her  and  married  her  \ 
but  afterward  he  was  very  disagreeable  about  his  coffee 
and  his  biscuits,  though  they  were  good  enough,  — 
I  Ve  tasted  them,  —  and  would  run  his  hand  over 
the  banisters  and  show  her  the  dust,  and  sniffed  when 
the  kerosene  lamp  was  lighted  in  the  library,  as  if  it 
had  a  horrid  smell,  when  it  was  exquisitely  clean. 
How  would  you  stand  that?  Really  a  noble  man, 
you  know,  who  was  simply  uncomfortable  to  live  with. 
What  would  you  do  in  such  a  case  ?  " 

"  Fall  down  the  well  and  get  almost  drowned  every 
day  just  to  keep  his  greatness  uppermost,"  said  Pau 
line,  flippantly.  "  Yes  'm,  that 's  what  I  'd  do." 

The  girl  sat  there   in  her  white  skirts  and  frilled 


304  Inside  our  Gate. 

dressing-sack,  her  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders,  her 
eyes  shining  with  happiness. 

"  Well,  good-night,  my  dear,"  said  I,  smiling  at  her, 
"  pleasant  dreams  and  every  blessing  !  " 

"  Good- night,  Molly,"  she  said. 

As  soon  as  I  had  shut  the  door  it  flew  open.  Out 
she  ran  and  caught  me  in  her  arms  and  kissed  me. 

"  Oh,  Molly  dear,  I  am  so  happy,"  she  said. 

"  You  dear,  dear,  good  little  Pauline ! "  said  I. 
"  You  deserve  to  be  happy ;  you  shall  be  happy ;  you 
will  be  happy;  good-night." 

David  Wilson  has  no  relatives.  He  says  he  wished 
to  own  us,  —  Allan  and  me  and  the  children,  —  and 
marrying  Pauline  was  the  only  way  to  do  it.  He  has 
plenty  of  money  left  him  by  an  aunt  who  was  evi 
dently  a  very  "  thoughtful  "  person  ;  and  they  will  be 
married  in  October  and  go  at  once  to  Europe. 

There  is  no  royal  road  to  learning,  we  have  all 
heard ;  but  there  is,  it  seems,  a  short  cut  to  Europe. 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


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THE  BOOK   OF   CHRISTMAS. 

Descriptive  of  the  Customs,  Ceremonies,  Traditions,  Superstitions, 
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LIFE   OF  DE.  ANANDABAI  JOSHEE, 

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TWENTY  LESSONS  IN  COOKEEY. 

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HISTOBY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  ISBAEL, 

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the  wildest  romance ;  more  heterodox  than  heterodoxy,  it  is  yet  full  of  large  and 
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Price,  $T.OO. 

JANE  AUSTEN. 

By  Mrs.  MALDEN.  (Famous  Women  Series.)  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price, 
$1.50. 

"  Mrs.  Charles  Maiden  has  written  a  pleasant  little  book, — all  sensible  books 
about  Miss  Austen  are  pleasant,  and  can  hardly  help  being  so;  and  this  book  is 
certainly  not  only  sensible,  but  in  parts  acute."  —  Spectator. 

SAINT  THEBESA  OF  AVILA. 

By  Mrs.  BRADLEY  OILMAN.  (Famous  Women  Series.)  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  gi.oo. 

The  story  of  Theresa  is  founded  upon  historic  facts,  and  is  told  nearly  as 
possible  in  her  own  words. 

To  the  student  of  Christian  history  or  of  Spanish  literature,  Saint  Theresa 
has  an  honored  place;  but  to  the  general  reader  she  is  no  more  real  than  the 
enchanted  princess  of  the  fairy-tale,  or  the  Lorelei  of  the  Rhine.  To  make  her 
a  living,  breathing  human  being,  with  feelings  and  foibles  like  our  own,  has  been 
the  most  delicate  part  of  the  writer's  task. 

THE  NEW  PBLEST  IN  CONCEPTION  BAY. 

A  Novel.     By  ROISERT  LOWELL.      A  new  revised  edition,      i  voL 
i2mo.     Cloth.     Price,  gi. 50. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers   Publications. 

AMOS   BRONSON   ALCOTT. 

His  Character.  A  Sermon  by  Rev.  C.  A.  BARTOL.  Containing  also 
A  Tribute  paid  to  Louisa  M.  Alcott.  Pamphlet,  20  cents. 

THE   STORY  OF  AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 

A  Novel.  By  RALPH  IRON  (OuvE  SCHREINER).  First  American, 
from  the  second  London  Edition.  i6nio.  Cloth,  red  and  black.  Price, 
60  cents. 


It  is  written  with  so  constant  an  inten- 


uuii  me  icmicr,  at    tiMLC    rc^JCiicu   .urn  idaviimicu,  wAiiuvi    i»iy  uic    UIHUV    uuwu    uuui 

he  has  turned  the  last  page.     It  is  a  book  about  which,  whether  one  praise  or 
condemn  it,  one  is  forced  to  speak  in  superlatives."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


OUR  RECENT  ACTORS. 

Being  Recollections,  Critical,  and  in  many  cases  Personal,  of  Late 
Distinguished  Performers  of  Both  Sexes.  With  some  Incidental  Notices 
of  Living  Actors.  By  WESTLANU  MARSTON.  i2mo.  Cloth.  Price, 

$2.00. 

A  BOOK   OF   POEMS. 

By  JOHN  W.  CHADWICK.  Eighth  edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged. 
i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  £1.25. 

Of  Mr.  Chadwick's  "  Book  of  Poems "  seven  editions  have  been  sold 
already.  From  the  present  edition  a  number  of  the  more  personal  and  occasional 
poems  have  been  omitted  ;  and  with  those  retained,  a  majority  of  the  poems  in  a 
second  volume,  "  In  Nazareth  Town,"  have  been  included,  together  with  a  good 
many  that  have  not  been  before  collected.  Thus  diminished  and  enlarged,  the 
publishers  of  "  A  Book  of  Poems  "  feel  that  it  is  much  improved,  and  that  it  will 
deserve  even  a  larger  circulation  than  it  has  heretofore  enjoyed,  though  this  has 
hardly  been  exceeded  by  any  of  our  minor  poets. 

ROGERS  AND  HIS   CONTEMPORARIES. 

By  P.  W.  CLAYDEN,  author  of  "  Samuel  Sharpe,  Egyptologist  and 
Translator  of  the  Bible,"  "The  Early  Life  of  Samuel  Rogers,"  etc. 
2  vols.,  large  post  8vo.  Cloth.  Price,  55.00. 

These  volumes  contain  hitherto  unpublished  letters  from  Lord  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Southey,  Crabbe,  Lord  Holland, 
Napoleon,  and  others. 

"The  charming  volume  in  which  Mr.  Clayden  gathered  up,  a  year  ago,  the 
abundant  materials  to  illustrate  the  early  life  of  his  kinsman,  the  author  of  '  The 
Pleasures  of  Memory,'  has  now  been  worthily  supplemented  by  the  two  volumes 
which  illustrate  the  last  fifty  years  of  that  long  life.  As  we  run  over  the  long,  list 
of  his  correspondents  and  friends,  we  scarcely  miss  a  single  conspicuous  name. 
Among  his  American  correspondents,  from  whom  letters  are  given  in  Mr  Clay- 
den's  volumes,  were  Edward  Everett,  Daniel  Webster,  William  H.  Prescott, 
George  Ticknor,  Washington  Irving,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  and  Charles  Sumner. 

"  Mr.  Clayden,  whose  long  training  as  a  writer  of  leading  articles  for  a  great 
London  newspaper  admirably  qualified  him  for  what  has  evidently  been  a  labor  of 
love,  has  connected  his  selections  from  Kogers's  correspondence  by  a  sufficiently 
full  narrative  and  by  all  needful  elucidations.  His  style  is  clear,  compact,  and 
straightforward,  and  his  volumes  furnish  abundant  materials  for  forming  a  just 
estimate  of  Rogers's  place  in  English  literature  aud  English  social  life."  — 
Boston  Post. 

5 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

Author  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory."  By  P.  W.  CLAYDEN.  121110. 
Cloth.  Price,  #1.75. 

"  '  The  Early  Life  of  Samuel  Rogers,'  which  has  been  anticipated  with  an 
interest  beyond  that  given  to  the  announcement  of  any  late  book,  is  now  ready, 
and  will  fully  reach  the  importance  that  it  promised.  It  covers  a  period  of  forty 
years,  or  to  the  opening  of  his  house  in  St.  James"  Place,  and  bis  appearance  as 
one  of  the  chief  figures  in  English  society,  leaving  to  a  promised  volume  the 
account  of  his  subsequent  life  and  his  brilliant  devotion  to  the  distinguished  men 
and  women  about  him. 

"  The  volume  at  hand  is  particularly  illustrative  of  the  author's  fidelity  to  a 
determination  to  an  intimate  and  full  understanding,  and  presents  the  most  satis 
factory  portraiture  of  Mr.  Rogers,  under  influence  of  his  motives  and  efforts, 
during  his  earlier  years."  —  Boston  Globe. 

THE   STUDY  OF   POLITICS. 

By  Prof.  VV.  P.  ATKINSON.  Uniform  with  "  On  History  and  the 
Study  of  History,"  und  "  On  the  Right  Use  of  Books."  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  50  cents. 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY. 

By  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.  Holiday  Edition,  with  Illustrations 
by  F.  T.  Merrill.  4to.  Cloth,  gilt.  Price,  $2.50. 

"  Roberts  Brothers  have  selected  for  illustration  a  story  that  in  its  time  had 
probably  more  readers  than  any  short  story  ever  published.  '  The  Man  without 
a  Country,'  written  by  Edward  Everett  Hale  at  least  twenty-five  years  ago,  called 
up  a  wave  of  sympathy  and  wonder  that  passed  over  the  whole  country,  intensify 
ing  and  increasing  the  patriotism  and  enthusiasm  of  the  period.  It  was  written 
as  a  contribution  toward  the  formation  of  a  just  and  true  national  sentiment,  or 
a  sentiment  of  love  to  the  nation.  The  present  generation  will  find  the  story 
comparatively  a  new  one,  and  will  enjoy,  as  other  readers  have,  its  realism  and 
pathos,  and  ask  again  and  again,  as  has  been  asked  many  times  before,  Is  it  true? 
This  holiday  edition  is  illustrated  by  F.  T.  Merrill  with  many  designs  in  sympathy 
with  the  story.  No  more  delightful  book  is  offered  for  the  holiday  trade  than 
this  popular  story."  —  Book  Buyer. 

FRANKLIN  IN  FRANCE. 

PART  II.  The  Treaty  of  Peace  and  Franklin's  Life  till  his  Return. 
F.rom  original  documents.  By  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE  and  EDWARD 
E.  HALE,  Jr.  i  vol.  Svo.  Cloth,  gilt  top,  uniform  with  the  first  vol 
ume.  Price,  #3.00. 

MR.   TANGIER'S  VACATIONS. 

A  Novel.  By  Rev.  E.  E.  HALE,  author  of  "In  His  Name,"  "Man 
without  a  Country,"  etc.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.25.  Paper,  50  cents. 

IN  HIS  NAME. 

Illustrated.  By  Rev.  E.  E.  HALE.  A  new  and  cheaper  edition  of 
this  beautiful  story,  including  all  of  the  illustrations  contained  in  the  larger 
edition.  One  volume.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Uniform  with  "  Ten  Times  One," 
"  The  Man  without  a  Country,"  etc.  Price,  {$1.25. 

6 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THE    PENTAMERON,    CITATION     FROM    WILLIAM      SHAK- 
SFEARE,  AND  MINOR  PROSE  PIECES  AND  CRITICISMS. 

By  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR.    izmo.    Cloth.    Price,  £2.00. 

This  volume,  "Imaginary  Conversations"  (5  vpls.  ),  and  "Pericles  and 
Aspasia  "  (i  vol.),  comprise  Lander's  entire  prose  writings. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  STORIES 

On  the  Golden  Texts  of  The  International  Lessons  of  1889.  First 
Half,  January-June.  By  Rev.  EDWARD  E.  HALE.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  Jj5i.oo. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL   STORIES 

On  the  Golden  Texts  of  the  International  Lessons  of  1889.  Second 
Half,  July-December.  By  Rev.  EDWARD  E.  HALE.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  $1.00. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  STORIES  FOR  LITTLE  CHILDREN 

On  the  Golden  Texts  of  the  International  Lessons  of  1889.  July~ 
December.  By  Miss  LUCRETIA  P.  HALE  and  Mrs.  BERNARD  WHIT 
MAN.  One  volume.  Square  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.00. 

"The  publishers  of  this  volume  issued  in  January  a  collection  of  twenty-six 
stories  founded  upon  the  texts  of  the  International  Course  for  the  first  six  months  of 
this  year.  They  will  issue  this  month  a  series  of  twenty-six  stories  corresponding 
to  the  lessons  of  the  last  six  months  of  the  year.  These  stories  are  written  by  what 
in  the  Wadsworth  Clubs  we  call  a  'Ten,'  —  several  of  them  by  myself,  and  the 
others  by  my  sisters,  my  children,  and  by  Mrs.  Bernard  Whitman,  the  Secretary 
of  the  Ten  Times  One  orders.  It  is  pleasant  to  acknowledge  the  interest  and 
favor  with  which  the  collection  already  published  has  been  received  by  teachers 
of  Sunday-schools.  But  it  had  scarcely  appeared  before  we  received  an  earnest 


elps  them  or  their  teachers  helps 
felt  at  once  some  surprise  that  the  general  wish  for  such  a  collection  had  not  been 
sooner  acknowledged  and  provided  for.  I  therefore  urged  Mrs.  Whitman  and 
my  sister  Lucretia  to  undertake  at  once  the  compilation  of  a  volume  which  should 
meet  the  purposes  of  the  younger  classes  in  all  our  Sunday-schools,  as  they 
engaged  in  the  study  of  the  International  texts  for  this  year.  They  have  under 
taken  this  very  pleasant  office,  and  the  reader  has  in  hand  the  stories  which  they 
have  provided  for  the  little  people. 

"  It  is  published  at  the  same  time  with  the  collection  for  older  boys  and  girls, 
which,  as  before,  was  written  by  what  I  am  tempted  to  call  my  own  '  Ten.'  lioth 
of  them  are  published  with  our  best  hopes  and  prayers  for  the  welfare  of  the 
young  people  for  whom  they  are  written."  —  Edward  E.  Hale. 

ROGER  BERKELEY'S   PROBATION. 

A  Story.  By  HELEN  CAMPBELL,  author  of  "  Prisoners  of  Poverty," 
"  Miss  Melinda's  Opportunity,"  "Mrs.  Hcrndon's  Income,"  "The  What- 
to-do  Club."  I2mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.00;  paper  covers,  50  cents. 

"It  is  one  of  those  stories  that  always  appeal  to  the  sympathies,  and  will  find 
a  large  circle  of  readers  among  those  who  still  believe  in  the  courage,  gratitude, 
and  fidelity  of  man.  The  tale  is  well  conceived  and  prettily  set  in  an  old- 
fashioned  country  house,  the  characters  are  in  the  main  well  drawn,  and  the 
climax  very  effective.  The  author's  style  is  bright  and  lively,  and  though  the 
materials  she  has  used  are  not  new,  they  arc  most  pleasantly  modelled  to  suit 
her  ends."  —  Commonwealth. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

PRISONERS  OF  POVERTY  ABROAD. 

By  HELEN  CAMPBELL,  author  of    "Prisoners  of  Poverty,"   "The 
What-to-do  Club,"  etc.     i6mo.    Cloth.     Price,  $1.00 ;  paper  covers,  50 


cents. 


ook  is  quite  as  serious  and  appealing  as  the  other,  and  shows  about  the  same 
irivation  in  conditions  and  inequalities  in  wages."  —  Boston  Globe. 


A  RAMBLING  STORY. 

By  MARY  COWDEN  CLARKE.    A  new  edition.    i6mo.   Cloth.    Price, 

$1.00 ;  paper  covers,  50  cents. 

"  In  '  A  Rambling  Story'  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  whose  more  serious  Shake 
spearian  studies  have  made  her  name  pleasantly  and  honorably  known  to  students, 
tells  a  romantic  tale  of  art.  love,  adventure,  and  travel.  .  .  .  The  story  has  for 
its  heroes  and  heroines,  principal  and  subordinate,  true,  high-hearted,  romantic 
characters,  and  is  simply,  pleasantly,  and  at  times  delightfully  told,  and  abounds 
in  word-picturing  and  phrasing  and  romantic  incidents."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

A  WOODLAND  WOOING. 

A  Story.    By  ELEANOR  PUTNAM.     i6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.00. 

"  The  reader  must  be  dull  indeed  who  could  not  be  won  from  his  summer 
drowsiness  by  enjoyment  of  the  breeziness  and  cheeriness,  the  unforced  brightness 
and  charming  originality  of  this,  the  most  amusing  '  summer  novel '  which  has  up 
to  date  found  its  way  to  our  table.  Its  pages  breathe  of  youth  and  summer 
weather,  of  clover-fields  and  mountain  brooks.  One  is  quickened  with  a  sense  of 
something  near  and  sweet  and  wholesome  in  its  pleasant  company.  It  is  the 
story  of  a  summer's 'camping-out,'  told  in  alternate  chapters  by  a  brother  and 
sister,  of  the  frank,  jolly,  rather  'picklesome  '  sort."  —  Exchange. 

COUNTER-CURRENTS. 

A  Story.  By  the  author  of  "Justina."  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  75 
cents. 

"  '  Counter-Currents,'  by  the  anonymous  author  of  '  Justina '  is  well  worth 
being  read,  and  attentively.  It  is  a  sweet,  uplifting  story,  with  vigorously  drawn 
characters  and  scenes,  —  indeed  it  is  occasionally  trulv  dramatic,  —  and  with  many 
blendings  of  tender  feeling  and  delicate  analysis.  Moreover,  without  seeming  to 
aim  to  do  so  unduly,  it  teaches  several  most  important  practical  lessons  in  an 
unmistakable  manner."  —  Congregationalist. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS. 

From  the  text  of  the  Rev.  ALEXANDER  DYCE'S  second  edition.  With 
Portrait,  Memoir,  and  Glossary.  A  cheap  edition.  7  vols.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  #5.25. 

The  "  Alexander  Dyce  "  edition  of  Shakespeare's  plays  and  poems  is  pre 
sumedly  one  of  the  most  accurate  among  the  many  editions  which  have  been 
published.  The  interpretation  of  the  text  has  the  indorsement  of  our  best 
scholars,  both  in  England  and  America.  The  edition  is  issued  in  small,  handy 
volumes,  compact  and  durably  bound,  and  contains  a  glossary. 


Messrs.  Roberts  BrotJiers    Publications. 

THE  TETJTH  ABOUT  CLEMENT  KER. 

A  Novel.  By  GEORGE  FLEMING,  author  of  "  Kismet,"  "  Mirage," 
"  Head  of  Medusa,"  etc.  161110.  Price,  75  cents. 

"Under  the  name  of  'George  Fleming,'  Miss  Julia  Fletcher  has  for  more 
than  a  decade  been  ministering  to  the  pleasure  of  readers  of  the  better  sort  of 
fiction ;  but  we  do  not  remember  that  in  all  that  period  she  has  produced  a  more 
thoroughly  original  and  artistic  novel  than  '  The  Truth  about  Clement  Ker.' 
From  the  literary  point  of  view  Miss  Fletcher's  work  has  always  been  of  a  rare 
and  charming  quality.  Her  style  is  nervous,  graceful,  impressive,  strong.  .  .  . 
The  plot  is  admirably  managed.  Nothing  could  surpass  the  skill  with  which  the 
interest  is  slowly  brought  to  centre  upon  the  hidden  chamber  in  the  ruins,  and 
ihe  haunting  terror  of  the  closing  chapters  is  something  to  be  remembered. 
Here  again  the  author  enforces  the  artistic  creed  ot  nothing  too  much.  The 
mystery  remains  a  mystery  to  the  last,  or  at  any  rate  is  only  to  be  solved  by  the 
reader's  ingenuity."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

ROMANCES    OF  REAL  LIFE. 

First  and  Second  Series  (sold  separately).  Selected  and  annotated  by 
LEIGH  HUNT,  author  of  "The  Book  of  the  Sonnet,"  "The  Seer,"  "A 
Day  by  the  Fire,"  etc.  2  vols.  i6mo.  Price,  75  cents  each. 

Crimes,  virtues,  humors,  plots,  agonies,  heroical  sacrifices,  mysteries  of  the 
most  extraordinary  description,  though  taking  place  in  ihe  most  ordinary  walks 
of  life  are  the  staple  commodity  of  this  book;  all  true,  and  over  the  greater 
portion  of  them  hangs  the  greatest  ot"  all  interests  —  domestic  interest. 

FRENCH   AND   ENGLISH. 

A  Comparison.  By  PHILIP  GILBERT  HAMERTON.  One  volume. 
I2mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $2.00. 

"  Mr.  Hamerton's  comparison  of  the  two  nations  follows  a  very  methodical 
order.  He  compares  them,  step  by  step,  in  reference  to  education,  patriotism, 
politics,  religion,  virtues,  customs,  and  society.  The  chapters  on  the  virtues  — 
which  are  philosophically  classified  under  the  heads  of  truth,  justice,  purity,  tem 
perance,  thrift,  cleanliness,  and  courage — abound  in  suggestive  observations." 
—  Academy. 

INSIDE   OUR  GATE. 

A  Story.  By  Mrs.  CHRISTINE  C.  BRUSH.  Author  of  "  The  Colo 
nel's  Opera  Cloak,"  in  the  "  No  Name  Series."  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price, 

$1.00. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  stories  of  the  season  is  '  Inside  our  Gate,'  by 
Christine  Chaplin  Brush,  the  author  of  the  '  Colonel's  Opera  Cloak,'  a  book 
which  achieved  a  great  popular  success  several  years  ago.  In  her  new  book  the 
writer  has  sustained  her  reputation,  and  gives  us  reproductions  of  quaint  charac 
ters  met  with  in  household  experiences  that  are  full  of  an  entertaining  truthfulness 
to  life.  Swedish,  Scotch,  Irish,  and  rustic  American  peculiarities  are  brought 
forward  in  this  volume  with  a  realism  that  shows  the  author  has  carefully  studied 
the  subjects  chosen  for  illustration.  The  young  or  old  matron  who  has  been 
obliged  to  haunt  intelligence-offices  in  search  of  servants  will  tind  in  these  pages 
matter  highly  suggestive  of  her  own  trials  and  tribulations,  set  forth  in  a  bright 
and  piquant  manner  that  will  make  very  spicy  reading  in  the  hours  that  can  be 
spared  from  domestic  duties."  — Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

THE   STORY   OF   REALMAH. 

By  Sir  ARTHUR  HELPS,  author  of  "Friends  in  Council,"  "Casimir 
Maremma,"  etc.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  75  cents. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

CASIMIB  MAEEMMA. 

A  Story.  By  Sir  ARTHUR  HELPS,  author  of  "Friends  in  Council," 
"  The  Story  of  Realmah,"  etc.  First  American  edition.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  75  cents. 

BY  LEAFY  WAYS. 

Brief  Studies  in  the  Book  of  Nature.  By  F.  A.  KNIGHT.  With  nu 
merous  beautiful  illustrations  by  E.  T.  Compton.  i2mo.  Cloth.  Price, 

$2 .00. 

"The  author  leads  us  through  all  the  varying  year  in  a  series  of  delightful 
chapters.  It  is  hard  to  single  out  one  as  superior  to  another.  His  diction  has  a 
character  of  its  own.  So  ingeniously  does  he  blend  what  he  has  seen  with  what 
lie  has  read,  and  all  in  such  an  original  manner,  that  one  feels  one's  self  in 
the  presence  of  a  new  master.  He  transmutes  the  spirit  of  the  country  into  the 
language  of  the  town  in  a  way  which  appeals  alike  to  the  naturalist  and  to  the 
man  of  letters.  His  very  table  of  contents  is  enough  to  make  a  Londoner  long 
for  another  holiday."  — London  Academy. 

THE  LITTLE   PILGBIM :    Further  Experiences. 

On  the  Dark  Mountains.    The  Land  of  Darkness.   i6mo.  Cloth,  limp. 
Price,  60  cents. 

This  volume  is  uniform  with  our  edition  of  "  A  Little  Pilgrim,"  and  is  a 
continuation  of  that  book. 

STOKIES  OF  THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

By  Mrs.  MARGARET  O.  W.  OLIPHANT.  Including  the  four  books 
hitherto  published  anonymously,  viz :  "  A  Little  Pilgrim :  In  the  Unseen  ; " 
"The  Little  Pilgrim:  Further  Experiences,  etc. ;"  "Old  Lady  Mary,  a 
Story  of  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen ;  "  "  The  Open  Door.  —  The  Portrait : 
Two  Stories  of  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen."  In  one  volume.  161110. 
Cloth.  Price,  gi.  25. 

WITH  SA'DI  IN  THE  GABDEN; 

Or,  The  Book  of  Love.  Being  the  "  Ishk  "  or  third  chapter  of  the 
"  Bostan  "  of  the  Persian  poet  Sa'di,  embodied  in  a  dialogue  held  in  the 
garden  of  the  Taj  Mahal,  at  Agra.  By  Sir  ED\VIN  ARNOLD,  M.A., 
K.C.I.E.,  C.S.I.  One  volume.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Uniform  with  "The 
Light  of  Asia,"  "  Pearls  of  the  Faith,"  etc.  Price,  £1.00. 

'"With  Sa'di  in  the  Garden,'  by  Sir  Edwin  Arnold,  continues  the  service  of 
making  English  readers  acquainted  with  the  classical  poetry  of  the  East,  in  which 
the  author  has  been  so  long  and  so  successfully  engaged.  This  is  in  most  respects 
the  most  interesting  contribution  Sir  Edwin  has  given.  It  is  a  more  connected 
story,  and  its  motive  is  clearer  than  in  his  other  translations  and  paraphrases. 
The  poems  from  Sa'di  abound  in  rare  beauty  of  thought  and  fancy,  and  are 
delightful  independently  of  the  text  in  which  they  are  embedded.  The  wonder 
fully  flexible,  idiomatic,  and  strong  and  chaste  English  of  Sir  Edwin  Arnold  has 
a  special  charm  of  its  own ;  and  his  command  over  English  diction  has  been 
nowhere  shown  by  him  with  greater  fulness,  brilliancy,  and  force  than  in  this 
volume,  which  appeals  strongly  to  every  finely  cultivated  taste  and  every  lover  of 
poetry  in  its  finest  and  truest  essence."  —  Saturday  Evening  Gazette* 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THE  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  SIB  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 
2  vols.     i2mo.     Cloth,  gilt.    Price,  $4.00. 

This  edition  includes  all  of  the  Poetical  Works  previously  published  in  eight 
volumes,  thus  condensing  them  into  a  portable  and  permanent  form. 

ETHICAL  RELIGION. 

By  WILLIAM  MACKINTIRE  SALTER.     tamo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.50. 

"  It  should  be  read  by  all  who  wish  to  know  the  real  spirit  and  purpose  of 
the  ethical  movement.  It  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  movement,  one  of  the  best 
fruits  it  has  yet  produced.  The  book  does  not  pretend  to  be  a  philosophical 
treatise ;  its  purpose  is  purely  practical  and  moral.  The  moral  purpose  that  holds 
ethical  societies  together  and  animates  their  work  is  here  strongly  and  beautifully 
presented.  Every  page  is  a  call  to  the  higher  life.  The  gospel  of  the  supremacy 
of  ethics  is  nobly  vindicated."  —  Ethical  Record. 

MISS   EYRE   FROM  BOSTON,  AND   OTHERS. 

By  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  One  volume.  iGmo.  Cloth, 
Price,  $1.25;  paper  covers,  50  cents. 

"Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton's  stories  are  always  certain  to  be  worth 
reading;  for  the  author  understands  human  nature  thoroughly,  she  has  the  gift 
of  devising  original  motives,  her  style  is  piquant,  jnd  her  satire  almost  uncon 
scious  in  its  felicity.  '  Miss  Eyre  from  Boston '  is  a  book  that  all  gently -nurtured, 
good-hearted  girls  ought  to  delight  in  reading."  —  The  Beacon. 

IN  THE  6ABDEN  OF   DREAMS. 

Lyrics  and  Sonnets.  By  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  Author  of 
"Poem  by  L.  C.  M.,"  "Random  Rambles,"  "Miss  Eyre  from  Boston," 
etc.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Illustrated.  Price,  £1.50. 

CHATA  AND   CHINITA. 

A  Story.  By  Mrs.  LOUISE  PALMER  HEAVEN.  Uniform  in  style 
with  "  Ramona."  One  volume.  i2mo.  Cloth.  Price,  §1.50. 

"  The  local  color  is  novel,  the  plot  striking,  and  the  character-sketches  are 
vivid.  Even  if  the  reader  be  averse  to  stories  of  adventure,  he  will  find  his 
interest  captured  here  at  the  start,  and  pre>ceed  breathlessly  to  the  end  of  '  Chata 
and  Chinita.'  .  .  .  The  reader's  inierest  is  sustained  throughout  the  book,  and 
the  narrative,  from  beginning  to  end,  is  boih  picturesque  and  absorbing.  Un 
doubtedly  there  are  too  many  characters  introduced  into  the  story,  and  sometimes 
the  reader  is  fairly  bewildered  by  the  rapid  succession  of  exciting  events;  but  in 
making  the  criticism  we  must  remember  that  the  writer's  aim  has  been  to  give  us 
a  living  picture  of  a  plowing  period  of  Mexican  life,  —  to  write,  in  tact,  that  old- 
fashioned  article  known  as  a  romance.  That  she  has  accomplished  this  difficult 
task  brilliantly,  no  one  can  deny.  Few  readers  who  once  take  up  her  fascinating 
taie  of  love  and  adventure  will  lay  it  down  without  finishing  it.  'Chata  and 
Chinita 'is  in  many  ways  a  remarkable  novel."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

BELIEF. 

By  GEORGE  L.  CHANEY.     i6mo.    Cloth.     Price,  Ji.oo. 

A  series  of  discourses  under  the  several  headings  of  Man,  God,  Christ, 
Heaven.  Hell,  etc.,  the  object  of  which  is  to  find  some  basis  of  truth  and  reality 
on  which  to  plant  the  feet  of  active  charity,  and  where  a  genuine  devotion  may 
kneel  without  superstition  or  tear. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications, 

A  FEW  MORE  VERSES. 

By  SUSAN  COOLIDGE.  One  volume.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  £1.00. 
An  entirely  new  collection,  and  companion  to  the  first  volume,  "  Verses 
by  S.  C.,"  of  which  the  "New  Haven  Palladium"  says: 

"_' Verses,'  a  modest  name  for  a  casket  of  gems,  a  collection  of  rare  and 
beautiful  literary  pearls." 

A  MODEEN   MEPHISTOPHELES. 

By  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT,  author  of  "Little  Women."  One  volume. 
i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.50. 

"A  Modern  Mephistopheles"  was  written  by  Miss  Alcott  for  the  "No 
Name  Series  "  of  novels,  and  is  now  for  the  first  time  published  with  her  name  as 
its  author.  In  this  volume  is  included  a  new  story  (60  pp.),  never  before  printed, 
entitled  "  A  Whisper  in  the  Dark." 

LOUISA  M.   ALCOTT: 

Her  Life,  Letters,  and  Journals.  Edited  by  EDNAH  D.  CHENEY. 
With  portraits  and  view  of  the  Alcott  Home  in  Concord.  One  volume. 
i6mo.  Uniform  with  "  Little  Women."  Price,  $i.  50. 

Mrs.  Cheney  has  allowed  this  popular  author  to  tell  the  story  of  her  early 
struggles,  her  successes,  and  prosperity  and  life-work,  in  her  own  inimitable 
style,  gracefully  weaving  the  daily  record  of  this  sweet  and  useful  life  into  a  gar 
land  of  iinmortelles  in  a  manner  at  once  pleasing  and  within  the  comprehension  of 
the  thousands  of  readers  and  admirers  of  Miss  Alcott's  books.  It  might  truly  be 
called  the  biography  of  "  Little  Women." 

The  volume  is  enriched  by  the  addition  of  two  new  portraits  of  Miss  Alcott, 
one  taken  at  the  time  she  went  into  the  service  of  her  country  as  a  hospital  nurse, 
the  other  when  she  was  in  the  full  maturity  of  her  popular  career. 

PORTFOLIO  PAPERS. 

By  PHILIP  GILBERT  HAMERTON.  With  a  portrait  of  the  author, 
etched  from  the  life,  by  Henri  Manesse.  I2mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $2.00. 

"  Portfolio  Papers  consists  of  numerous  short  biographies  and  essays  selected 
from  his  admirable  art  periodical  by  their  author,  in  the  belief  that  they  were  of 
permanent  interest  and  worth  collection  in  handier  form  than  that  in  which  they 
were  originally  given  to  the  public.  They  include  biographies  of  Constable,  Etty, 
Chintreuil,  Adrien,  Guignet  and  Goya ;  a  series  of  '  Notes  on  ./Esthetics,'  essays 
on  'Style,'  '  Soul  and  Matter  in  the  Fine  Arts,'  '  The  Nature  of  Fine  Arts,' 
and  'Can  Science  Help  Art?'  and  five  'Conversations  on  Book  Illustration,' 
the  whole  forming  a  delightful  volume,  to  be  read  with  pleasure  by  all  people 
of  cultivated  taste.  To  dwell  upon  the  grace,  the  pithiness,  and  the  polish  of 
Mr.  Hamerton's  literary  style  is  not  necessary  at  this  late  date,  and  it  would  be 
equally  superfluous  to  emphasize  the  authority  and  the  taste  with  which  he  writes 
about  art.  This  book,  which  is  prefaced  by  an  etched  portrait  of  the  author,  is 
abundant  in  that  charm  and  that  edifying  comment  that  make  Mr.  Hamerton 
one  of  the  most  attractive  and  satisfying  of  art  critics  to  read."  —  Saturday 
Evening  Gazette. 


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